Guided Fates
by OrthodoxLily
Summary: Faylinn of Anding led a tumultuous life which left her dying at the edge of the South Downs where she was then taken in by a wizard, who was guided to her by fate. Now, on a quest to reclaim a lost dwarf city, she finds herself closer to her life's purpose then ever before. Mostly because he's standing only four feet to her left - not that she knows it of course. ThorinxOC
1. Prologue

**Guided Fates**

 **Prologue**

 **The Story of the Little Girl, Who became the Little Woman**

 _Not so very long ago, in a poor village of men not so very far away from where we are now, there was a farmer, to whom life had been mainly unkind. He was not particularly strong, nor quick witted, nor handsome. He wasn't very skilled or well learned, nor even well-liked. He didn't have much of anything going for him at all; not even luck. In fact the man was peculiarly unlucky, to a point that many whispered the ill-favored man must be cursed. He was fortunate, however, in one aspect of his life. Through the rare misfortune of others and not himself, he had been blessed with a beautiful wife and through her, had been born two wonderful children. The first, as nearly every man would hope, was a son. The boy would in time grow to be a wise and courageous man. The second child, perhaps less prized but loved by her mother nonetheless, was a daughter. This little girl would grow to be a clever little woman, beloved by many. But before that woman, she was just a girl. And that is how our story begins…_

The family rose before the sun, as they always did, to begin their chores for the day. She felt her brother leave the straw cot they shared and pulled the blanket closer, relishing the warmth his body had left behind. It was only early spring and although the frosts had stopped some weeks ago, she knew that outside the confines of the bedding there would be little warmth until sunrise.

She didn't like the cold or the damp; it made her rather cross with everything. She had however learned to keep these moods to herself when her father remained in the small, one room cottage the family called home. From her place beneath the covers she could hear her father's boot steps, loud and thunderous, as he moved around the room; her brother's tinier shuffles in tow. She heard the vague snap of her father's voice, telling her brother to pick up his feet, before the shuffles turned to tiny taps instead. Soon the footsteps stopped and there was instead silence.

She decided to take a peek and pulled the covers down slightly, to eye her family wearily. Her father was sitting at the bench next to the small, crudely crafted table, quickly splitting a small portion of bread with his son, who sat adjacent. Finnor was a giant man, with poorly kempt brown hair and dark, hardened eyes. The winter had thickened his beard, hiding what she knew to be a sharp, square jawline from view. He was over six feet of lean, ropey muscle although the idle winter and scarce food had left him looking leaner and more drained than ever.

His son shared his drained disposition, although due to his lesser years carried his fatigue with less poise. Out of his nine winters of life, the boy had been helping in the fields for five of them. He was a gangly boy, very boney and tan, although much of the color had gone from his face lately. A mop of poorly groomed blond hair fell to his prominent cheekbones and into his eyes, which were deep grey in hue. They were downcast now, focused on the ration that had been presented to him.

She felt her stomach rumble and bit her lip, regretting seeing the bread. The winter stores were almost bled dry now and they had no coin to purchase anything from market, and wouldn't have any for a few weeks at least, so food had to be conserved. Her father and her elder brother, Fenn, would be the only ones breaking fast in the mornings since they had to go out in labor in the fields. Her mother had been quick to explain this to the young girl, already planning ahead to avert any innocent complaints of hunger the child may have. She had long since discovered that when her mother told her to do something, it was usually to stop her from accidentally angering her father who liked his ale and had a heavy hand as a result.

The woman in question stood off to the side, there being only places for two at the table, with her husband's ratty jacket in her hands. Her mother had been beautiful once or at least that's what Fenn said. He said that when he was younger, everyone always talked about how she was the prettiest woman in the entire village of Anding. The young girl couldn't really see it. Her features had long since been made sallow by hardship and poverty, leaving behind only a ghost of the woman she once was. Her long blond hair was wound into a knot at the top of her head, originally for convenience, but the lack of hygiene had matted her locks and made the style nearly impossible to loosen.

She was unhealthily thin, although her bone structure suggested she had never been very shapely to begin with, nor was she very tall, or even average in height. From above jutting cheekbones, large grey eyes, dull with abated despair peered out at the world with a great deal of caution. Her hands, the girl always noted, were cracked and calloused but had always seemed dainty in shape, like the gentlewomen that she would see in the marketplace when she and her mother would go to sell. It wasn't long and her father stood, nearly having to crouch to maneuver in the tiny room.

Grabbing his jacket he glanced at his wife, whose eyes were glancing back quietly.

"Wake the girl, Lisela. Then get the eggs; keep half a dozen. Sell the rest and see if you can get some barley." This was muttered quickly before, in his typical manner, he stormed out with his boy in tow. She met her mother's eyes, that matched her own, and the woman's cheeks rose high to accommodate a smile.

"Come now, Faylinn. The men are awake so we must be awake." She said as she made her way over to her daughter, gently brushing some curly, light brown hair from the girl's face. At only four winters old, her complexion had yet to be tarnished by the sun revealing only a smooth creamy color. The girl let out a giggle and pulled the quilt up to her nose, preparing for the game she knew would result. Seeming to be excited to play the girl's game, the woman perched on the side of the bed and pulled her worn, wool shawl closer to her body.

"Ah!" Lisela exclaimed playfully, "but the fair maiden slumbers still! How should I waken thee fair maiden? With a poke?" She asked, raising a finger to poke her daughter's forehead. The girls stifled giggles under the blanket but squeezed her eyes shut in false sleep. "Alas! It works not! Perhaps she will wake with a pinch?" Again she rose a hand, but this time she moved and gently pinched one of the little girl's cheek. There was a squeak of protest but the little girl only squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "No? Than what else is there to wake my sleeping beauty; the radiant maiden who has stolen my heart?" A mumbled word underneath the blanket caused the woman to lean closer. "What was that I heard? An answer from the gods, perhaps?" The girl giggled uncontrollably but through the giggles managed to say "a kiss!"

Lisela laughed at the girl's enthusiasm and saw fit to respond, "Ah! Of course! My love for the sleeping maiden is true and there is nothing more powerful than true love! So, a kiss I shall give in hopes that its magic will waken her so that she may spend eternity at my side!" The woman said this part rather dramatically, adding swooning gestures to add to the game. Then, leaning forward, she placed a gentle kiss on her daughter's forehead. The girl's eyes snapped open soon after and she sprung up from the bed, landing in her mother's waiting arms.

The woman than rose from the cot, carrying the child with her across the room to the table where she sat her down to dress her.

Faylinn's clothes were simple, a dark grey wool dress and a piece of cloth to tie the girl's growing hair back. The girl was surprised when the woman pulled out a small pair of tanned leather shoes with a smile and laced them up gently. She had never had shoes before, the closest she'd ever had to shoes was a pair of knit slippers she'd worn as a tiny babe. Her mother didn't have shoes for the summer, she just had boots that she wore in the winter and only in the winter, for fear they'd get ruined if they were worn year round. From summer to fall, until snow blanketed the ground, the woman went barefoot. The girl smiled; receiving such a present really was a treat.

"Now let's go gather some eggs, yeah?" She said to Faylinn, who smiled still quite pleased at having shoes. The two quickly got to work, her mother going into the creaking shed to gather a few woven baskets before making her way to the chicken coop. The family had a fair sized coop, with over twenty hens and it was nearly the only thing that kept them going during the winter. Lisela checked the feed, which was still good and then she and Faylinn went about the gentle process of gathering the eggs.

The young girl was quite proud of herself as she didn't break a single egg and before long they were all gathered and Lisela began gently stacking them in the back of the padded pull cart that was saved for transporting eggs. Being so small, Faylinn was unable to help and after the eggs were loaded simply climbed in the back to mind them during the journey. Her mother took her place at the front of the cart and began pulling, digging her feet into the mud to gain leverage as she heaved with all her might.

The family's cottage was thankfully not far from Anding and its marketplace. In fact the cottage was within sight of Anding's poorly constructed, wooden walls. The actual land that Finnor owned however was over the glen; so far from sight that when her father and brother left for the fields they were gone until sometime after dark. It wasn't long before they arrived at the gate and her mother signed the entry into the village with her husband's name.

Lisela was literate; the only thing visibly that remained of her time before she was married to Finnor of Anding. Of the time before she was a simple, poorly farmer's wife. She had books, when Fenn was young, but over the years they had been sold for coin and now the only stories she was able to tell her daughter were the folktales that thrived in the village. Her mother managed to roll the cart into the market where others were setting up as well. Mostly the vendors were of the luxury sort, as like her own family, the crops had barely been planted let alone ready for harvesting.

From her perch on the cart the young girl eyed the merchants and their carts of velvet and ribbon, fabrics that she'd never felt before but always longed to. Her mother refused to even look in that direction in an obviously purposeful manner. As the day stretched on and the sun rose and chased away the chill, the idle child basked in the enjoyable warmth. She remained still while her mother dealt with the transactions and throng of shoppers. She learned long ago not to wander, because it drew her mother's eyes away from the stall and she had been told that was bad for business.

Again she wondered at what Fenn had told her. People had said that Lisela was once among Eriador's most beautiful and yet, to the young girl's eyes, no one seemed to even know her name. No one showed her kindness or familiarity, like with her poverty she had suddenly gained anonymity. It seemed to her that without status she hadn't been worth knowing and now without beauty she wasn't even worth notice at all. In this thought, a voice cut through, "Lisela?"

It was a man's voice. Not a young man, but not an old man either; perhaps a few years older than her mother. Fourteen winters her mother had seen when she'd been married to her father and now, ten winters later, after she had suffered, someone from her past life paid her notice.

"Ewain?" The woman questioned in equal shock which soon turned to a thin, but genuine smile that she saved typically only for her children.

And that was when it started really. That was when Faylinn's story really began. This meeting would be the moment that ensured the changing of her fate from that of a poor farmer's daughter to something much greater.

In her past, Lisela had been one of a wealthy merchant's two beautiful daughters. But in the end, as misfortune often goes, he lost everything and in that everything was any dowry he could possibly hope to afford his daughters. With no coin left for dowry and no marriage prospects amongst the higher class, their father took ill with worry and decided that having his daughters marry poor men who would care for them was better than having him leave them with nowhere to go but the streets. So selling the few possessions he had left, including his wedding band, he gained enough coin to purchase two large pigs. To each daughter he gave a pig for their dowry and began to seek out husbands for them. Mirela, her mother's twin sister, was married to a young blacksmith from the nearby village of Bree barely started in his trade.

Lisela had two marriage prospects, a bard from Gondor named Ewain and a farmer from Anding, named Finnor. Lisela fell madly in love with Ewain, for she too had always had a quick wit and love for literature and he was very talented in his craft. But Lisela's father knew that pretty words and love alone did not give a woman a hearth and home, which he thought she needed for happiness and security. Despite his lack of wealth and tact, Finnor did have these things.

So come the summer, Lisela was married to Finnor and heartbroken, Ewain sang his sorrows all the way back to his homeland. He would return to Anding some ten years later not as a bard, but as head of the Gondorian merchant's guild. He had never married and he had never stopped loving her.

The little girl didn't know this of course, as the strange man stared at her mother with a look of both shock and resigned adoration. All she knew was that the man was quite kind, for he bought quite a few of the family's eggs and returned at the end of the market day with a piece of blue ribbon, blue like the sky, which he tied into Faylinn's hair. Her mother took the ribbon when they got home and stashed it away; giving the girl the feeling that perhaps it was best not to mention handsome man. Her mother had the look on her face that she had when she was worried Faylinn would say something to upset her father.

It seemed the man was there every market day and he would spend much of it gravitating back towards Lisela and Faylinn's cart of whatever it was they'd been sent to sell that day. Eventually, her mother started making sure they were both washed before they went to market, which she thought was strange but didn't question as she had always enjoyed baths. Not only that but she liked seeing the handsome man. He had a friendly face, full and well-fed, with light wrinkles that showed how much he smiled and sparkling blue eyes that went well with his fair hair. Not only that but he always brought a treat for her, in fact after a while he began to ask which treat she would like for him to bring next. Usually it was jelly tarts; she had grown to adore jelly tarts almost as much as she liked when he came.

One day, she and her mother had returned from market and her mother surprised her by pulling up a lone floorboard at the corner of the room, and from it emerging with a wooden object.

"Faylinn, come here." Her mother beckoned gently and hesitantly the girl approached, peering at the box quietly. From the foundation of the house, Lisela had pulled up a chest like some sort of buried treasure. It was a small chest, not much bigger than a bread box, with no distinguishing traits about it. "This is yours. I've been preparing it for my daughter since before even Fenn was born; I wanted you to know where it is. Someday you may need it." She took a key from around her neck and put it in the iron lock, turning it until there was a small click. She then opened the chest to reveal an assortment of things.

Among them she noticed her ribbon and a woman sized apron, far too large for her presently, that was trimmed with lace. Real lace! She couldn't believe her eyes. There was also a bundle of folded up fabric, dyed a pleasant shade of golden yellow. Having never seen such fabric before she reached in and felt it, finding it smooth to the touch. She instantly let go, worried she'd ruin it. "It's satin." Her mother commented at her reaction, "I've managed to get enough for you to trim a wedding gown." At the mention of a wedding gown she paused to stare at the woman. "You won't have a dowry; not a real one anyway. So I thought instead, the groom's family might find it favorable for you to have a trousseau."

"What's that?" The young girl asked. She vaguely remembered hearing of a dowry before, but never a trousseau.

"It's a collection of things that belong to you and will help you in your first little while of marriage. It's getting more popular now amongst the peasant class; leastways that's what the seamstress in town said. It's just easier to put together I suppose." She smiled gently at her daughter, before closing up the chest and locking it, placing the key back around her neck.

After that her mother started visiting the nice man at his home at the edge of town at the end of market day. He said he was just renting it, that he had another home in Gondor. She didn't know where Gondor was, but the man made it sound far far away like the places in the faerie stories her mother would often tell her at night. After a while when they went to the man's house she would sit downstairs with a plate of jelly tarts by herself while her mother and the man went elsewhere.

She wasn't sure what they were doing, but honestly she didn't care because as long as she behaved she got presents and sweets. She thought about sharing the sweets with Fenn, but her mother told her that she wasn't allowed to bring any of them home with her. This continued for some time, until after Faylinn had seen five winters. Then it all changed.

One morning, in mid-August, Faylinn woke up to complete silence. This was strange. In a single room you would always hear someone breathing or messing about and there was always someone home when Faylinn was. Her mother never left without her. She sat up in bed and glanced around, noticing sun was trickling through the single, small window that shined from above her parent's bed. The sun was up, which meant the men were long since up and gone. But still, her mother should be around. She slowly slid off the cot and onto the ground, growing quite cross with the change in routine. This was not how mornings where supposed to go. Bare feet padded softly on cold wooden floors as she wandered around the room, still in her nightgown.

Finally deciding she didn't want to walk on the cold wood anymore she wandered over to where her shoes were currently dried by the hearth and slipped them on, initially on the wrong feet which she corrected soon after with some difficulty. She didn't know how to lace them up so she just left them. Finally, after some exploration her eye was caught by a familiar object upon her parent's bed. There was the key to her chest and underneath it a letter, tucked snuggly under the cover of her mother's only remaining book. It was a simple, leather-bound book that she was told was of riddles.

But Faylinn could barely read, she had only begun to learn her letters enough to read and write her own name. With little else to do she took the key and put it around her neck before looking to the book and sliding the piece of parchment out. As she'd expected she couldn't read any of it, only her name at the top and the word "Farewell" at the bottom.

Her mother was gone.

She sat and cried for some time, before stashing the letter and book in her secret chest and sitting on her bed with red eyes. Mostly, she just dreaded her father's return.

XxX

If Finnor had been quiet before he was even more so now. He didn't know where his wife had gone and having not expected his daughter to know anything at all had never questioned her. It became apparent to him, however, that Lisela had kept many secrets and he grew greatly distrustful. He stopped working the fields, leaving Fenn to depart every morning and return alone every night.

Where he went the children were never sure, but Fenn took charge and made certain that Faylinn was on task before he left every morning and should the young child have forgotten something he would correct it himself. Slowly, the chickens began disappearing, their father selling them to quench his thirst for ales and, occasionally, wines. Eventually, with very few chores that she was capable of still at the house, Fenn began taking Faylinn to the fields so he could keep an eye on her. Mostly she sat off to the side and played in the dirt or picked flowers in the glen, but sometimes Fenn would find a task she was capable of – like poking seeds into the furrows.

Faylinn didn't like the fields, the sun burned her fair skin which would then blister and make sleeping difficult. On the other hand, she enjoyed spending time with Fenn and in time grew to adore him.

Then comes the end of the beginning, Fenn discovered a bee hive and had managed to receive some comb for he and his sister to eat. The two of them sat in the glen, staring out over the ocean of waving grass and over to where the muddy dot of Anding could be seen in the distance. Not long into their break, there was what appeared to be at first a flash of orange and though Faylinn had no idea what she was seeing, Fenn sprung up with a look of concern.

"Come on, Fay." He said quickly, practically pulling her up of the ground and causing her to drop her honey comb. She made a squeak of protest which the boy ignored as he practically dragged her across the meadow. He was running too fast for her, her short legs struggling to keep pace with him.

"But what about the trowel and hoe? Father will be angry if we leave them!" The small girl protested through gasps as they ran. She was only ignored and she soon understand why as they came over the final hill and saw their cottage, or at least, you could vaguely make out its frame through the orange wall of flames. People had gathered, some holding now empty buckets. It was clear initially people had come to help distinguish the blaze, but now that it was beyond control they had just resigned themselves to watch it burn. The cottage was far enough away and so surrounded by mud, that there was little concern that it would spread to Anding.

"Cracked old drunkard, s'all he was." Someone behind them muttered.

"Saw 'im not this morning, lying in the gutter yelling to the sky that 'e was gonna burn everything 'bout her. Ye don't think 'e burned them kids too, do ya? Be a right shame." Another voice answered the first. Clearly they'd known the man's reputation, though not his family, as they hopefully would have recognized the two children. Perhaps if they had, they would have cared enough to help them. But they didn't.

 _So the elder brother made a decision; a very hard decision. With nothing left in their village and no one to help them, he took his little sister on the road. He did everything he could to keep the two of them together and keep the little girl safe. He learned to hunt, although not very well, and made what little coin he could by selling the pelts of the small animals he caught. The little girl wove braided bracelets from scraps of leather, coloured threads and cloth that she managed to find. In the days when they were in towns, as the siblings were mainly nomadic, the girl would sit in the marketplace and attempt to sell the simple accessories while he went to hunt in nearby woods._

 _Years passed and the two arrived in a small farming village on the edge of Enedwaith, its name long forgotten. The elder brother did what he always did, but days passed and then a week with no sign of his return. The little girl was aggrieved by his disappearance and despairing. Her brother had always returned and yet, he hadn't. It wasn't something the little girl could understand nor did she want to. She was alone. But still she waited and a single week became a month._

 _Perhaps she would have waited an eternity for his return as she didn't know what else to do. Then it happened. They came in the night, sell swords hired as a result of some political dispute the common folk could never understand. A war over land and prestige caused by misleading deals of a lord's ancestor. The survivors, the girl among them, no longer had a village to return to – leaving behind only burning buildings and the corpses of their neighbors. In light of this tragedy, this true witness of death, she saw reason._

 _Her brother, Fenn, would never return. To her mind, he too must have gone up in flames._

 _They were homeless, starving and desperate. They fled north, eventually finding safety camped just outside the walled city of Kinreth which rested at the head of the North Downs. Once a military fortress of the lords who fought the evils in the northern wastes. This city, renowned for its buildings of red stone, was now a home of merchant nobility. They knew little of poverty and suffering – they wandered their cobbled streets delighting in their aristocratic lives and fancies. They did not desire the presence of such filth in their city and the immigrants were forced to remain outside the walls; allowed in for a brief period every day to sell their catches of venison and quail that they had learned the nobility were partial to._

 _Eventually, the immigrants built their own village outside the walls that they named Alton, meaning "from the old town". Despite the strict policing of the immigrants in Kinreth, the unminded urchins like the girl, found themselves slipping through the town's gates and alleys unseen. And it was in this way, our little girl stumbled into the next phase of her journey…_

Begging was what she had been reduced to.

The merchants here were too sly and quick to rob, it was nearly impossible to steal from them. They were mostly traveling merchants far too used to defending their wares from the rabble of the poor villages they typically sold in. The people here were far too "sophisticated" to take any interest her woven bracelets when real jewels adorned their wrists and necks. At first, remembering her brother's teachings of integrity and she had tried to hunt. Their only knife and bow had gone missing with her brother, so she had foolishly attempted to do without – using woven rope in an attempt to create snares. But despite having these ideas the reality was that she did not know how to do these things and with no one to teach her she had failed miserably. She had only ended up cold and even hungrier than when she had started, not to mention sick from the wild berries she'd had to settle for.

So, she resorted to begging.

She would sit by the duck pond in the center of the market square, thankful for the cobbled streets which were the only thing keeping her from sitting in the dirt. She never cared for being filthy, even though she had little choice in the matter. She had never seen people so wealthy before coming to Kinreth. Everyone was clean and proper, especially the women who had a remarkable way of coating insult with charm and coming away unscathed. She had a great deal of fascination for watching these ladies – they were her secret obsession. Being invisible to them was quite useful for keeping her interest alive.

They wore layers, upon layers of shiny material – to her it had at first looked like satin, but when she'd got up the courage to gently touch the hem of one lady's skirt as she passed she found it far smoother. Silk, she had overheard one of the merchants say. It came in colors she didn't know materials could come in – blue like a robin's egg and a rich, deep purple like a juicy plum. There was red, like the apples in the orchard inside the fortress cities inner walls. The orchard that belonged to the town master, who was kind and sent the excess apples to Alton on the day of the Harvest Festival. There was a green she had never seen before, lighter than she'd ever seen in nature, that she had overheard was the color of a citrus fruit known as "lime" that the nobles had recently come to adore.

Their skirts were voluminous beyond practicality, causing the permanent establishments that outlined the square to widen their doors. Their hair was worn in faux-curled styles with large, feathery hats pinned to their heads. When the day had even the faintest chill, they took the opportunity to adorn their various fur stoles. Once she saw a lady, accompanied by her entourage of hand maids and friends, wrapped in a large white stole with nearly four black-tipped tails dangling down behind her. White fox pelts, from the north, she had overheard.

Sometimes when the groups of fluffed dresses walked by she would sneak in between their skirts, brushing together to create the perfect hiding place, and listen to their tittering. Their talk fascinated her. They thought so much differently than she had come to understand was normal. They took pleasure in silly things, like making politely rude remarks about one another and delighted in collecting silly, useless trinkets. Statuettes made of painted porcelain that were good for nothing other than looking at. They bragged of the accomplishments of their husbands and sons like they were their own and found scandal in things that she saw as normal. Even talking to someone not within a specific social circle was considered cause for scandal. And they had worth! My but did these women consider themselves to have worth.

Faylinn wasn't sure how true the amount of worth these women had was, but they believed themselves to be worthy of everything – respect, mostly. Not the same sort of respect that men got, certainly, but a type of respect. This was a foreign concept to Faylinn, who knew only a world where a woman was used for the keeping of house, strength of her back and bearing of sons. That's what a woman's expected function was in the world and said woman deserved no praise for doing so. It did not mean she was worth any more if she did these things much better than her neighbor or sister.

She too had been treated as a being without worth from her youngest of days by her own father. But these woman looked for praise, pride and worth in these things – and received it.

Countless husbands and lords had passed before the young girl's eyes to buy gifts of thanks for their wives. In thanks for bearing sons and daughters! Imagine; a man thanking his wife for a daughter! But then again, Faylinn supposed, why shouldn't he? A man of Kinreth didn't need boys to tend his fields no more than he needed a daughter to tend his house. So, these women were praised and respected for the things they did – thanked for them – like they deserved to be praised. They were given their worth by their husbands and fathers, then again Faylinn wasn't sure how else a woman would receive her worth. Before Kinreth she hadn't known a woman could have worth, herself included.

The matter of worth aside, more than anything, these women were bored. She didn't know how else to put it. To her young eyes and ears, these women and men alike, she supposed, were always looking for ways to entertain themselves – she'd watched them long enough to notice. It was why they did anything, that and their inflated sense of worth. It was why they shopped, drank, partied, why they generated scandal, were mean to one another – it was even why they ate so many new, strange things. Why they collected trinkets. Why they created strange, new fashions. Faylinn wondered, if she would be that way if she too did not have to worry about her next meal, where she was going to sleep or whether she would have a coin in her palm the next day. These people were raised to privilege and they were bored of it. It was painfully obvious.

 _It was with this understanding of the nobility's mindset that the girl made her entrance into her own life of fortune. Their inflated sense of worth, her own untapped talent and this toxic boredom was her key to the little girl's survival in Kinreth. She just didn't realize it until one chilly, autumn day…_

She was begging, like she did every day, her palms outstretched in a silent plea. She was entering into her second year in Kinreth's streets and had seen twelve winters of life. She didn't call out to the passing merchants and nobility like the other begging urchins did, she found that her silence was far more effective. The other beggars actually scared the silk-wearing coin carriers away with their cracked, sickly voices. They sounded as dirty and diseased as they looked and the combination of the two assaults on the senses was enough to drive even the more sympathetic well-to-dos away. Her silence, was an appealing contrast. She'd managed to wash her face in the duck pond that morning, making her more appealing than the others. The difference was that she cared to at least attempt to make herself clean. The others had long since given up. It wasn't any kind of vanity that had inspired this cleanliness but instead, like the lack of her voice, she had noticed it bettered her chances of receiving coin. She was lucky, she was young and a girl, much more likely to receive pity.

A young man, in a grey silk tunic and dark breeches spotted her from across the marketplace. She had become good at noticing when she was being watched – it was her newfound, city survival instinct. He was clearly a son of the higher class, his hair a rich smooth gold brushed behind both ears. He watched her with awkward weariness, as if seeing someone of poverty for the first time. Perhaps this was the first time he'd ever really noticed. She couldn't recognize him personally, there were so many in this city. Another culture shock; towns that she once thought were big contained only a hundred people, but Kinreth must've had a thousand.

He hesitated for a few minutes, trailing behind his equally wealthy friends as they moved from stall-to-stall. The one leading the group would say something, a joke apparently, because the staring man would be forced to laugh belatedly. Finally as the group went to leave the market square he stopped, hesitating and looking towards her at least twice. She had him.

She extended her hands pitifully as he approached, putting on her still useful 'poor little girl' face just in case he had doubts. There in his hands was a silver piece, one he'd intentionally selected to give to her. A rarity, usually she just got the copper pieces – the scraps leftover from their purchases. The change that was too much of a pain to carry. He sent her a kind smile as the piece moved towards her outstretched hands, only for the two of them to be startled as a hand grasped the man's wrist, stopping the process.

She lowered her hands in response and the young man recoiled, yanking his wrist out of the newcomer's grip. He was startled yes, but he clearly recognized the man. Her stomach clenched as her eyes slid over to the face of the person who had disrupted the exchange. It was one of the other young men from earlier, the one who had led the little group around the marketplace. The others were there too, all three of them, observing the exchange with mild expressions and some with impatience.

The two young men were brothers, she could see that now.

They had the same green eyes (green, imagine!), fair hair and their noses were even the same, sloped shape. But the one who approached her was younger, she wasn't sure how she knew for sure. Perhaps it was the way the newcomer seemed to be lording himself over the other man and his group of friends. No, friends was the wrong word. Associates was more accurate – friendships to the people of Kinreth seemed to be more like business relationships. His manner seemed to imply some respect that one would give to an older sibling. She ignored the sudden pain that erupted in her heart at the unbidden remembrance of Fenn. But this brother was not like Fenn, his eyes twinkled not with warmth but instead held a spark of mean-spirited desire. This was one of those men who delighted in being purposefully unkind.

"Now, Brayan! You weren't going to just throw away your hard earned coin were you? You should know better. Coin only goes to those who can provide something in return. It's only fair." The older brother's voice was cold and patronizing. She noticed Brayan took the scolding like a child, but glared through he downcast lashes as if he disagreed regardless.

"Calder…" Brayan warned, obviously trying to stop this situation from progressing. She too wished the group would just leave; she found herself not even wanting the coin anymore. She wanted this "Calder" gone more than she wanted a silver piece.

He snatched the silver coin from his younger brother's hand, dangling it in front of her face in a taunting manner.

"So, the law of the land is trade. Do you have anything to trade? By law no one in Kinreth gets something for nothing – it's how we maintain our economy." He leaned down and got in her face, scaring her. She pushed back tears as his overwhelming, dark energy pushed down on her. "Do you even know what economy means, little girl?"

She gulped. No, she didn't know what economy meant. And she didn't have anything to trade. The man scoffed and pulled away, taunting her with the silver piece one more time as he turned to leave. His posse went to follow suit, Brayan clearly moving more reluctantly than the rest.

No, she didn't have anything to offer in return for a silver piece. But to have come so close to getting it only to have it taken away. She was suddenly overwhelmed with panic and desperation, days of hunger trampling her common sense.

"I," She shouted, far louder than she should have but it halted the group. She became quieter when the two brothers turned to face her. Her eyes dropped to the silver coin, still reflecting the suns light from Calder's hand. "I can tell you a story. The…the best story you've ever heard!"

The claim was enough to catch the nobleman's attention. For he was as bored as he was self-important, just like all the rest.

 _It was a serious proclamation and had the elder noble brother been alone, his personality would have urged him to lie and claim that the tale the little girl had woven was not to his satisfaction. But when the little girl finished, others having gathered to listen intently, it was obvious that all had been enraptured by her story and she received many silver pieces. It was the first time she had been able to actually use her talent and mystical charm – her talent for storytelling and her eerie ability to know exactly what one wanted to hear. And use this talent she did._

 _After the two noble brothers came more; lords and ladies, merchants and farmers, the young and the old. It became great fun for the people of Kinreth to give the little girl a silver piece to hear fun, original stories. And she could tell them on command – she was never stuck and her clients were always satisfied. Some strange gift gave her the ability to tell them exactly what they wished to hear. She went from an urchin to a beloved attraction of Kinreth – whom they called "The Fabler"._

 _Eventually, word of her spread to the town master, who was father of the two noble brothers who had heard The Fabler's first proper tale. Unlike his people he was not a man of fancy. While wealthy, he was a kind and self-sacrificing man who often ignored his own wants, and sometimes needs, in order to keep his people happy. It took him over a year to hear of The Fabler of Kinreth and he saw her, not as the attraction she had become, but of the homeless little girl who used her entire day's earnings to buy a loaf bread. He saw her as a child of great talent who wore rags and slept in the stable that the market square merchants used for their oxen._

 _He was charitable, being of the same mindset of his second son, the kinder son, so he took the girl into his home as his ward, teaching her to read and write. He gave her fine dresses with large skirts and pointless trinkets, though she still did not truly care for these things. She had a room to herself and a bed made of brass and spent her days relaxing in the orchard – caring more to continue observing Kinreth's ladies than to join their flock._

 _He nurtured the talents and gifts so much that when she finally wrote her first book, a compilation of wondrous faerie stories, she took the penname Glynn Silverquill – for Glynn was the kind town master's name and Silverquill paid homage to her talented, silver tongue. The elder brother continued to not care for her, he saw her a poor contribution to his family's name and a waste of their resources. A stone was still a stone, no matter how much it was polished – it would never be a gem. How could it possibly ever hold worth?_

 _But like all good things, no matter how hard we resist, they will eventually end. Endings are as inevitable as beginnings, although we fear them far more and dislike them for their harsh nature. The year went by and the little girl blossomed into adolescence. And when she had seen fourteen winters, this phase of the little girl's life came to a harsh end._

 _Glynn was old and he eventually grew ill, as all elderly men are apt to do and he began to fear for the little girl's future. While he was very wealthy and able to provide a rich dowry for his ward, few suitors presented themselves. The fact remained that the girl was not born to this life. She preferred her own company and spent her coin on books rather than jewels, which was not an attractive trait to the men of Kinreth. She was not often seen in public and people began to assume that there was some shame involved on the town master's part – that perhaps there was something wrong with her. This was not true, of course, he simply allowed the girl her freedom – but the minds of men are often strongly influenced by ignorance._

 _So he worried and he puzzled. How could he ensure for her a future that was worthy of her? And then he made a decision. A decision that would solidify the direction of the girl's fate and deliver her from Kinreth forever. He decided that she would marry his eldest son. His eldest son would inherit his family's wealth and Glynn was certain that the girl would be safe and happy if she were to remain amongst the family. Who better to care for her than his own flesh and blood? This decision made, kind town master Glynn passed from this world._

 _His eldest son was not pleased with this decision and the second son, knowing his brother's ire and fearing for her, offered instead to take the little girl, now he deemed not so little, as his bride. But Glynn had been absolute in his decision and left witnesses amongst the higher class to enforce it._

 _The eldest son, as wicked as he was, was not about to be forced into something he deemed so demeaning. He hatched a plan, to kill the girl himself and when he could not do it - his cowardice causing the dagger to still above her heart while she slept – he hired a handful of poor farmers of Alton to do his work. They stole into her room at night, the elder brother having left the window of her chambers unlatched, and they grabbed her from her bed. They took turns attempting to kill her, but each time she used her quick wit and charm to talk them out of it._

 _They spent all night trying to decide who among them should deal the death blow, arguing amongst themselves, until soon the dawn was nearly upon them and the second son having noticed her disappearance, rallied the village's guards. In urgency the farmers stole from the city's smithy the largest chest they could find, then they stuffed the girl in and locked tightly the iron clasps. They decided then that they would take the chest southwest, to the where the small fishing village of Devlin sat on the banks of the river Brandywine. There they would throw the chest into the river, believing that it would sink and the girl would inevitably drown._

 _But by some grace of divines unknown, the chest did not sink._

 _The little girl lived and when she was finally pulled from the river at Sarn Ford, she was bitter and her soul was chilled._

 _She wandered from place to place – staying only briefly in various villages of Eriador, relying often on the rare charity of others. She continued to write and distribute her work, finding some solace in it, but her faith in humanity was lost. Her works were dark and terrifying, not the faerie tales of old but works of true horror in which she channeled her misanthropic self._

 _She survived by selling the handwritten copies of her works and dared not return to Kinreth, where she knew she would be in danger. And it was in this way that she blossomed to become the little woman that the world needed to be. She met a great many men, journeyed to a great many places and though she would never identify them, did a great many things. But those great men died, she left those great places and those great things she did were soon forgotten. The things she had truly done became fable and she was left once more with only her dark and twisted thoughts._

 _She did not live, she only survived and finally, her poverty and loneliness wore at her. During her twentieth winter of life, spent from the strain of keeping hunger, sickness and death at bay she found herself beginning to give in. She settled beneath the naked, snow covered branches of an old oak where she was able to stare out over the South Downs. She had chosen that place to die and, as the fates had chosen to intervene once more, an old man appeared at the foot of the hills._

 _He seemed as surprised to see her as she did him, in fact he had been rather lost, and they stared at one another with apprehension. His expression then slipped to knowing and he offered her a piece of bread and a chance. A chance only he would have offered her, seeing inside her broken form the journey she had yet to perform - the purpose of her life that she had yet to fulfill. And he knew why he was sent to her. He knew why their paths had crossed that day for he was a guardian of Middle Earth – one who was capable of understanding the complexities of fate._

 _He was a wizard after all, the grey wizard, the grey pilgrim – Gandalf some called him. And he was the final guiding hand that fate had sent her to ensure her life's purpose was achieved._

XxX

 **Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter starts off at the quest. I felt this introduction was important to my character. I wanted her past to be vaguely introduced because I often find when reading fanfictions, and sometimes novels (no matter how good) that the character introduces the hardships of their past out of nowhere – almost like they were made up on the fly. I understand that is not the case but for me, I felt like I wanted to establish that depth of her past from the beginning. Faylinn has done an awful lot of living for someone who is only 25, after all, and I plan to reference it regularly. I think that's a little worthy of note.**

 **The next chapter is done and as soon as it's posted I plan to begin work on the next. Please review, even if it's just to let me know about a spelling error. I'm Canadian, so sometimes you might find "u"s in words you may not be used to seeing u's in. What can I say, we like our vowels in the Great White North.**

 **Hope I've piqued your interest and you continue to read.**

 _ **~ OrthodoxLily**_


	2. Part 1: Chapter 1

**Guided Fates**

 **~xXx~ Part One ~xXx~**

 **The story of the Little Woman, Who became a beloved Queen**

 **Chapter 1**

 _Now, as stories often go, it seems that within this one there is another tale to tell. Years before our_ _brave little girl – now a woman – was even a thought, before the time of her parents and grandparents, there was a land to the east the like of which could not be found in the world that she was born to._

 _There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of fine bounties; ever peaceful and prosperous. More colourful than Kinreth and yet filled with a more pure, genuine kind of happiness. The kind found in a town without hardship or poverty - for it was kept sheltered. And so it was, as this city lay before the doors of the greatest city in all of Middle Earth. Erebor, stronghold of Thror, King Under the Mountain and the mightiest of all the Dwarf Lords. Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress city was legend as was its wealth of rare gems and everlasting gold. Thror ruled with little fear for the future of his people as his line and ideals lay secure in the lives of his son…and grandson. A Dwarf who, with his own great loses, would become another turning point in our young woman's fate. Ever, the Dwarf prince's people delved deeper, spurned by their inherent greed and desire for the material; as was their nature._

 _And that's where they found it – The Arkenstone. The heart of the mountain; a splendorous gem with which no other compared. King Thror took this as a sign that his right to rule was divine, he did not see it for the curse it would become. Though none did. For it is the fault of Dwarf-kind that they are easily dazzled by shine and as such, become blinded. It cursed his house, it drew out a long-dormant sickness of his kin and caused it to surface bringing with it madness and blind greed beyond comprehension. And it lingered. It festered. It brought destruction._

 _He came with no warning, a fire drake from the north, drawn by the sickness that thrived there. Smaug the Terrible, they would come to call him as he felled all that stood in his path. Men, Dwarves…whole cities crumbled before him. The Dwarves rose up of course, to protect what was theirs from Smaug's dark and fierce desire. But they were no match for a creature with teeth like razors and impenetrable scales. So the great Dwarven city was lost._

 _The loss of Erebor would bring low a once great and proud people, leaving our Dwarf prince and his kin to linger in poverty, slaving away in the villages of men. But the fates had plans for him, just as they had plans for our little woman; weaving the threads of their lives together like an intricate tapestry long before her birth._

 _Thus, the beginning of our little woman's rise to power begins. Destined, but not set in stone, to do great things. But as all things, like the trickling stream that feeds the oceans, it started small. Very small, actually._

 _In a small hole in the ground, there lived an even smaller hobbit…_

XxX

She slowed her mount's pace to a trot, rising up in the seat slightly to gaze across the rolling hills of endless green. She'd been to the shire and its outskirts before, but there was always something refreshing about basking in its cleanliness and clarity. Men were not this good with the earth, their villages and towns rarely possessed any redeeming qualities. They were muddy and filthy, often mirroring those that inhabited its shambled buildings and streets. Each race, save for men of course, had a certain majesty to the places they called home.

Elves preferred ethereal carving and magic, emphasizing their connection to the earth and the stars in the way they treated their land. Dwarves, although she didn't have as much experience with them, were the finest craftsmen in all of Middle Earth and that showed in the care they put into maintaining their halls. The very floor they walked on, though it be made of stone, was treated as if it was only the finest of gold. Hobbits, loved the earth. They didn't emphasize it like the elves did, but in some ways it made their connection seem stronger. It was as if their very presence was what made the grass grow green and the birds chirp. Like the lands everlasting love song. Men, to her eyes, seemed only to destroy and the land reflected its pain by withering.

Amfortas, her dapple grey mount and consistent companion, snorted at her stillness, preferring it when she moved with him rather than cause resistance. She tugged the reins moving him off the path and halting him at the top of a more prominent grassy ridge. He was a young stallion, rather small for a horse at only 14.2 hands but this was accommodating to his rider's own short stature. His dark grey, almost black mane fell along the side of his neck in well-maintained waves and braids, his tail being done in a similar fashion.

Her dark leather trail saddle was secured tightly over a gold and blue woven saddle blanket. Saddlebags of the same dark material were attached to either side and while she tried to travel light, they were quite full, not that it troubled the powerful Amfortas. Her bridle was more unique, a metal emblem with the carved Dwarf ruin for "G" attached to the center of the brow band to show all to whom the beast belonged. He was docile for a stallion, obedient and most importantly, very fast. She needed speed for the majority of the tasks her master Gandalf laid before her. She was his vassal and usually that meant playing envoy seeing as the wanderer clearly had no homestead for her to work on.

Just beyond the downs she could see them. There was a small mass of short, broad figures making their way towards the green of The Shire. She was about to get a little more experience with Dwarves it seemed as the next task her master had set for her was afoot. She nudged the beast down the ridge and back to the rolling path, setting a slow pace towards the group. She was in no hurry; she would meet them in due course.

She had grown over the past few years in Gandalf's care from a filthy, malnourished drifter to become the elusive vassal of an even more elusive wandering wizard. The sun was setting and she had long since pulled her hood up in anticipation of the light nip she knew the darkness would bring. She'd grown used to the warmth of the summer and dreaded having to get used to the chill she knew was coming once more.

Beneath her hood, long chocolate coloured waves could vaguely be seen although for the most part she kept the sides of hair pulled from her face with two simple, brass pins level with each temple. Her naturally fair skin was lightly tanned from her time spent outdoors and she was pleasantly clean, for once, having stopped in Bree to bathe thoroughly while she had the chance. Her eyes were still the same polished flint and were just as expressive, but they held…not a wisdom, but a knowing she hadn't had before. Like she'd seen much but refused to let it age her, her disposition acting like a mockery to the universe's way of making men weary. For she wasn't weary, in fact if anything her five summers with Gandalf had given her lively purpose that she'd never had and returned the childish wonder she'd lost so long ago in the Enedwaith. Her face had matured, losing the last of her babyish features and leaving behind a sharp, square jawline, shapely lips and an elegant, ski-slope nose.

She wore a dark washed out blue, cotton shift dress under a dark grey hangerock fastened with a pair of simple brass brooches, lacking in any form of decoration or etching. Due to the complexities of her work she wore dark, almost black, wool leggings underneath, unwilling to abandon the propriety of her dresses but not being able to deny that in some situations skirts would reveal more than was appropriate. Both the dress and hangerock were loose enough on her small frame to allow movement in the few situations she found herself needing to fight. Durable, dark leather boots lined with rabbit fur donned her feet up to her mid-calf and she had riding gloves that matched.

Around her waist, clenching the loose fabrics into her body, was a simple metal belt with her master's brass "G" emblem in the center. Proof of who she was for when she delivered his messages. Her hood and cloak were a lighter grey in color, the shade of the wandering wizard she'd pledged her services to that night as she lay dying north of the South Downs. Her blade, a one-handed steel sword, was attached to her belt – ever since an incident some years ago on the Gladden Fields she didn't feel safe simply packing it away. She'd rather have it ready; vigilance had been something she'd had to re-learn.

Finally, those she was seeking came over a rise in the road, meeting her head on. They stopped, and she understood their hesitance. A hooded figure on the road at dusk, riding a horse clearly meant for long journeys on a short road. Many would find her rather suspicious. Not to mention that despite her short stature she was clearly "Big Folk" as the Hobbits called her race and it was a rarity to see one passing through The Shire to begin with. She pulled her hood down to lull them into a feeling of security; it always worked.

She was a woman, after all.

A young, pretty and rather small woman; at first glance she was hardly any kind of threat. There were few who remained wary of her after revealing this. At least, that was the reason she believed that she was able to do her duty so well with little conflict. Gandalf disagreed; he claimed putting those around her at ease was one of her subtle gifts. Just like her story telling and her apparent good fortune, without which she would have been dead. She didn't believe herself very lucky of course and the few times she'd made to argue her master had simply looked at her with his dark eyes and crooked smile. An infuriating look of knowing that she'd come to recognize on his face.

She stopped Amfortas before them, turning him to stand slightly sideways so as not to seem as if she was ready to run them over. She offered the group a small smile, hoping to show them that they need not be alarmed. Her eyes swept over the Dwarves, silently counting them. It seemed she was short a few. When she managed to breach casual conversation, she would have to ask them where the rest of their kin were.

A rather muscular Dwarf, with a mass of red hair and a quite impressive, equally red beard pushed to the front of the group. From what little she'd seen of Dwarves, she always marvelled at the care they put into their braids and beads. According to Gandalf, the braids and beads all held different meanings and they gave such things a great deal of importance. The elves too had braids and beads, but such things rarely held any meaning other than the superficial.

"Well met, Dwarf masters. I bring greetings from Gandalf the Grey." She began, before the Dwarf could question her like she was certain he would. "He has asked me to accompany you the rest of the way."

There was a brief silence as the Dwarves looked from her to one another in contemplation.

"Do ye' have any proof of that, lass?" The redheaded Dwarf asked after some contemplation. In response she slowly moved her hand to brush aside her cloak and the group tensed. As they were warriors, they had probably all seen her blade poking out from beneath the layers of fabric. She could see the misconception that she was reaching for her weapon and raised her other hand calmly in the universal gesture of peace. She nudged aside her robes and displayed to them the emblem on her belt and they nodded in recognition.

"But…who are you, exactly?" One of the other Dwarves asked this one clearly very young and not as equipped for the world outside the mountain she knew he'd been born to. She was vaguely amused to note a slingshot, of all the weapons, strapped to his hip. The others looked at him as if he'd said something wrong and another older Dwarf, whom she presumed to be related to him due to the familiarity, hissed something under his breath.

"Forgive me. I suppose that should have been first but I've grown used to those I meet knowing me or not caring enough to ask." She admitted with a small laugh, trying to show them that she had received the question in good humour. "I am Faylinn of Anding, vassal and envoy of the wandering grey wizard. It is a pleasure to meet you."

There was more silence, the group of Dwarves clearly not knowing what to do with that information, if anything at all. They began introducing themselves, one by one, sometimes two by two, with a typical "at your service" tacked onto the end.

"Shall we push on then?" She asked pleasantly as the introductions came to an end, "Come, Amfortas."

She turned her mount around in the proper direction and led the group on. She kept her pace mild, the stallion nickering once or twice in boredom at the speed, and eventually the Dwarves moved from walking behind her to beside her. Engulfing her into their group, though none dared to walk in front.

"If I may ask, were there not meant to be twelve of you? You number only eight. Should I be searching for others?" She asked the closest Dwarf to her right flank, who happened to be Bofur, and appeared startled at first that she'd asked him. He got over it quickly.

"Not that we know of, milady. Last we heard the sons of Fundin had both left earlier than the rest and the lads as well." She nodded calmly. She noted that their leader, Thorin Oakenshield, had not been mentioned but brushed it off. She could understand their secrecy in regards to their leader.

It had gone dark, night descending upon the world properly, and she pulled her hood up once more to not only protect herself from the night's chill but also to give herself some semblance of security. A smile played at her lips; surrounded by Dwarven warriors and she still sought security from a garment. But darkness had fallen and no matter how hard she tried she was unable to forget the feeling of being consumed by the dark bowels of the chest she'd once been a prisoner of. She had, of course, forced herself to control this fear – but when offered she always preferred the company of others. To once more be alone in the dark…she couldn't bare it.

She noticed that the Dwarves had come to a halt and she stalled Amfortas as well, much to the creature's clear disappointment. She glanced up and noticed a tall, dark figure making their way towards the group and she recognized the gait immediately. He was an interesting fellow, Gandalf. He had a way of moving that made him look harmless; a sort of wobbly meander that he had become quite skilled at. But she knew better.

"Master Gandalf." She called to him, her voice cutting through the tense silence that the secretive Dwarves had fallen under. There was an aged chuckle, like an old man enjoying the antics of one of his grandchildren.

"Faylinn, my dear. Well done, well done indeed. I knew I could trust you to make sure they didn't go missing."

And with that the group set off for their destination once more.

XxX

"…poor taste!" Came the distant shout.

Then the door opened and the Dwarves, who had pushed themselves into a cluster against it in anticipation, spilled into the hobbit hole rather ungracefully. Faylinn had tied Amfortas up outside the gate, where the horse was nickering contentedly as he grazed on the hobbit's petunias. She gazed at the hobbit Gandalf had chosen to join the company and found herself rather intrigued. Not because the tiny man was particularly intriguing but rather because he _wasn't._ Not in the least, to be perfectly candid. To her eyes he was your average hobbit, small and a bit plump with a round face and curly, dirty golden locks. He was dressed in a cleanly, proper fashion and his blue gaze was currently meeting the wizard's own with a mixture of irk and disbelief.

"Gandalf." He said simply, his tone unreadable. His eyes slid over to her as the Dwarves scrambled to get up and into the hobbit's home, some ignoring him completely although quite a few stopped to introduce themselves with the typical "at your service". As they dispersed she and Gandalf finally had room to step inside. The tall wizard took his hat off, already having a great deal of trouble standing in the tiny space as it was. Faylinn was better off as she wasn't much taller than their Dwarven counterparts.

"Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce you to my vassal and dear friend," The old man started gesturing gently in her direction. She busied herself with removing her grey cloak, satchel, sword and gloves but smiled at the hobbit as she did so. "Faylinn of Anding."

"Greetings, Master Baggins." She said but without hesitation launched into conversation, "Where would you like me to place my cloak? I'm afraid I've got a fair bit of mud on my boots. It's dried by now but I still don't want to spread it around your lovely home."

Gandalf quirked his brow in amusement like he always did when she used her, as he put it, honeyed words. She had a quick and silver tongue, an amazing charisma, which allowed her to say exactly what someone wanted to hear. It was…a gift, she supposed. At least that's what Gandalf called it although she remained vigilant and weary. Telling people what they wanted to hear could potentially cause themselves and the speaker, plenty of trouble. She always aired on the side of caution when it came to this gift. But sometimes it was harmless. Like now, when a poor hobbit just needed to hear a bit of etiquette.

Indeed, at the pleasantries the hobbit seemed nearly relieved and went about hanging her cloak for her on a nearby coat hook. For her boots he retrieved a rag from a nearby chest for what she assumed was just that purpose. When that business was done the hobbit migrated with the two of them into a hallway, where the dining table had been moved to accommodate the mass of guests. The Dwarves had already begun raiding the poor hobbit's pantry, rather uninvited she realized as Bilbo ran forward to shout various commands that were blatantly ignored.

One of the Dwarves, Oin she believed, handed her a stack of plates and taking the meaning she began distributing them evenly around the table. Almost perfectly timed, as she finished her task, Gandalf appeared around the corner with four Dwarves who were unfamiliar to her. That being said, they must've been her missing Dwarves from earlier. The Fundin brothers and "the lads" as it had been so gracefully put.

"Ah, Faylinn! A moment please." She smiled at him and those accompanying him resignedly. She wasn't sure how she felt about the Dwarves just raiding the hobbit's home like this and it was shedding them in a rather negative light to her. Having had so little in her own life, she thought she'd cry if she were Bilbo. If she had a home, she imagined it would probably make her terribly upset if a bunch of Dwarves raided her home, ate all her food and made an inconsiderate mess of everything. Homes were something to be treasured after all and in her opinion guests had a strict conduct they should follow in order to respect someone's home. One of the few teachings of Kinreth that she agreed with. The Dwarves were clearly missing rules one through twenty. That being said, from their cheerful disposition she gathered that they didn't mean any harm by it and she knew she shouldn't fault them for a difference in culture.

The Dwarves each introduced themselves and she had a rather long, interesting cultural conversation with all four. Gandalf joining in where it was needed. They seemed pleased enough to meet her as well, although what Gandalf had told them about her to earn such acceptance she wasn't sure. She was also afraid to ask.

The first two were Fili and Kili, two brothers and, she discovered, the nephews of the company's leader. Both were rather tall for Dwarves, reaching her height if not slightly shorter and had quite youthful faces to match their carefree dispositions. Fili was blond with a short but well maintained beard and what she learned to be the signature, icy blue eyes of Durin's line. His brother was his contrast. Still growing his beard and rather lithe for a Dwarf, Kili at first to her eyes looked to be a miniature man rather than Dwarf. His hair was a dark brown, nearly black and fell to his shoulders in a well-tamed mane. He too had the same blue eyes as his brother, though they sparkled with a notable amount of mischief. Clearly, he was the younger brother. They were still rather young for quests by Dwarvish standards, at least that's what Gandalf told her, but to her they seemed rather formidable. The other two were even more so.

They were clearly older Dwarves not only by their appearance, but by the way they held themselves. Balin and Dwalin were their names; sons of Fundin. They too were also descendants of Durin's line but distantly. Balin was quite short and had a kindly, aged expression on his face. His hair and beard were long and white, not to mention like all his brethren, well-maintained. At her noting this he explained that beards had a great deal of significance to Dwarves and left it at that. His dark eyes glittered with knowing as they left her every now and then to monitor the goings on around them. He seemed very quick witted, if not blatantly intelligent, and like her seemed to be rather good with his words. He'd been a merchant for many years, he explained to her when she mentioned it and that suddenly made quite a bit of sense. Dwarvish merchants were famed for their ability to easily complete business deals with enviable finesse.

Dwalin, his younger brother, was clearly the career-warrior of the family. He was tall (well, for a Dwarf) and well-muscled, with a solemn expression she was sure came from being socially awkward rather than unfriendly. She managed to prod him into the conversation at one point, expressing an interest in what kinds of weapons Dwarves typically used and her musings on their supposed heartiness in battle. He'd been more open after that, although still didn't speak unnecessarily. He too had dark eyes and brown hair, although most the hair atop his head was gone and replaced with tattoos. Warrior markings, he'd simply explained.

The group dispersed after a few minutes, their conversation drawing to a natural close and everyone parted ways happily.

"Dare I ask what the reason for that was, Master Gandalf?" She asked quietly, each of them leaning up against a doorframe opposite one another. The Dwarves buzzed around them happily, still loading the table up with food. She wasn't sure whether she should be amazed at the size of their stomachs or the size of Bilbo's pantry. The hobbit in question was still in a tizzy, running through that exact doorframe moments after Gloin who was carrying a particularly fancy looking china plate.

"Thorin, my dear, is most likely among the most stubborn of his race. He will not want you to come, whether you are my vassal or not. I was…taking precautions." He didn't need to say much more. Gandalf had known that whoever she interacted with she would manage to win over with her silver-tongue so he'd found the four most influential and introduced them. She wasn't sure whether to laugh at him or scowl. The old wizard's political prowess never ceased to amaze her.

"You were using my gift to your own advantage, Master. How utterly predictable." She stated simply, finally deciding to take the situation with candor mirth.

"Ah, a gift such as yours must be used, Faylinn. And you'll see in time that it was quite to your advantage as well." He finished before walking off, eyeing the bustling Dwarves with interest. She remained where she was for a moment, mulling his augural words over in her head. She gave up eventually. She learned after her first year or so with the man that you shouldn't dwell on his words, it would only cause you strife.

"Excuse me, Miss Faylinn." She was startled out of her thoughts by the demure voice of Dori, a member of the company she'd met on the road. "Would you care for a cup of chamomile?" He asked politely and she noticed the decorative porcelain tea set on the tray in his hands. She sent him a polite smile. She was tempted to ask for wine but knew how Gandalf would react to that. He was displeased when he seen her drinking anything regardless of the amount considering how heavy a drinker she'd been when he found her. She still was a heavy drinker at heart, but the old man had made her realize that being a wino or drunkard really wasn't a productive use of one's time. That being said, the thought guiltily reminded her of the weight of her secret flask in the small pouch attached to her belt, kept among her coins and other small valuables. Not that she had many.

So, a minute later and she was sullenly sipping a cup of chamomile tea from her place by the doorframe. She assisted Ori a few times when the young Dwarf placed the knife and fork on the wrong sides of the plate although she was sure none of the other Dwarves would notice nor care. She saw Gandalf wander by in the adjacent room, clearly trying to count the constantly moving mass of short figures. She felt the presence of Dwalin in the room adjacent as well, leaning up against the wall near the doorframe she had currently gone back to inhabiting.

"He's late is all," she heard the stern Dwarf say sipping at his ale. Her mouth went dry and she sipped her tea in response, trying not to think about the suddenly quite popular ale mugs that were floating around the hobbit hole. "He traveled north to a meeting of our kin. He will come."

They must be speaking of Thorin, she mused. Intrigued at the notion of the Dwarf prince. From what Gandalf had told her he'd spent many years nomadic after the fall of Erebor, living in poverty and struggling to return an identity to his people. She imagined him to be rather hardened and couldn't help thinking of him as being the base for the tragic figure in her next faerie story that she wrote. Her faerie story compilations had sold well and she had sold a copy of her _Silverquill's Little Book of Horrors_ and _Journey to the North_ to a mass producer in Fornost.

She went there every few months to collect a percentage of the profits from the selling of these books and so far they were selling well enough to keep her fed. Sometimes she had enough to stay at an inn for a few nights rather than sleep under the stars. She thought about doing the same with her faerie stories compilations but every time she went to she would stop. In many ways, the volumes of her faerie stories were far more personal so the only copies in circulation were the few that she had managed to reproduce and sell herself. And she didn't make much off those considering she often sold them to children who carried little more than a handful of copper pieces on them if she was lucky. But children loved her stories. Children appreciated them and that appreciation warmed her soul far more than anything she could've purchased with the silver piece she could've gotten instead.

Then they were all called to meal shortly after and she was placed at a seat next to Fili and Kili, who seemed eager to converse with her again. That being said, once the food was on the table, there was little conversing that did not revolve around food. She was immediately glad for the two younger Dwarves' attention however, as she proved incapable of getting her hands on food in the Dwarvish fashion. That fashion being catching said food in midair, yelling loudly to get said food thrown and even battling other Dwarves with ones feet for portion sizes.

As overwhelmed as she was, however, she found herself unable to be upset by what was going on. She was far too fascinated to be upset. After her third failed attempt at getting a bun, Fili offered to take her plate and soon it was overloaded with meats, cheeses and fried vegetables with a great deal of seasoning. Probably, she noted from the Dwarves reaction to vegetables, to hide the fact that it was significantly healthier for them. Laughter flooded the room as Bofur haphazardly threw foodstuffs across the table into his brother, Bombur's, mouth. The lot of them made a great game out of it.

Fili was up after most of the food had gone passing around ales, walking around the table and over the nearly empty plates. Once everyone had one, herself excluded due to a glare from her Master, there was an abrupt silence. The only time they were perfectly silent, she noted was when they were drinking. They all finished their ales in a single go, their gulps resounding around the quiet room. Ale overflowed from many mouths and spilled down beards and onto tunics, although none seemed to care. A chorus of boisterous burps followed and she couldn't help but laugh along with the rest of them, taking joy in their child-like demeanours. She couldn't help herself, so far they seemed to be no more than overgrown children and as she'd mentioned, she'd always had a fondness for the disposition of children. It was refreshing.

When the time came to clean up, several of the Dwarves dispersed amongst the hobbit's home, doing as they pleased although she remained seated. She was now working on her fourth cup of chamomile tea. She held it between both hands and leaned on the table with her elbows, eyes taking in the goings on, trying to commit as much as she could to memory. So far, her first real encounter with Dwarves had gone well and she hoped it continued to go as such.

Then, suddenly, a plate flew passed her head and she noticed a distinct rhythm had begun around the room. Several of the Dwarves still seated near her began scraping the silverware together. Soon, the noise became a song. A ditty the Dwarves had conjured for the sole purpose of annoying their host but it was merry nonetheless. Something that rather surprised her actually. She hadn't expected them to be such fine singers. She dodged a now clean plate that whizzed overtop of her head although managed to make it look rather graceful as she merely leant forward to sip her tea as it flew passed. She imagined from a viewer's perspective it looked practiced but the truth was the flying dishware had given her quite the scare. It seemed the dining table was both the beginning and ending of this little circuit, the plate's once clean being all returned.

Soon, the table was covered with neatly pilled stacks of china and silverware, all properly sorted and cleaned. She chuckled when the group of Dwarves burst out laughing at Bilbo's awestruck face, having followed the flying kitchenware around the house until he got to its final destination.

Their laughter was interrupted by a knock at the door and Gandalf chose this moment to speak, puffing on his pipe almost ominously.

"He's here." The old man told the group, eyes going from the pleased Dwarves, the terribly confused Bilbo and her own anxious expression. She was excited to meet him for the sole purpose of wanting to see what all the fuss was about. That being said, as several of the Dwarves flooded to the main entrance to welcome their guests a few stayed behind to clear the table. Setting her own cup down she figured she may as well help. She carried a few half stacks of china, being careful not to overload herself. She didn't want to drop any of the china the hobbit had been fussing over, not after the plates had managed being thrown through nearly every room in the home and emerged unscathed. It was decided that they would place the plates in the pantry as they had no time to put them away properly. She heard the muffled deep of the new arrivals voice from where she was and wondered at what he looked like. When she emerged behind Balin after finishing replacing the last stack, the hall had begun to fill once more with Dwarves.

The merry nature had turned sombre; it seemed it was time for business now. She dared her eyes to gaze up at where she could sense the presence of Thorin Oakenshield, who had now gone to take a seat. Bilbo had run off in search of some food for the new guest on Gandalf's request and she noted the embarrassed look on many of the Dwarves faces when the realized they'd eaten everything before their leader could get there. Judging by the regal Dwarf's stoic demeanour, she wasn't sure the gathering would have been half as merry with him present. She moved through the mass of Dwarves back to her spot, where her still mostly full teacup sat undisturbed. She hadn't been noticed yet, her height and rather drab clothing allowing her to blend in with the mass of faces in the room. Thirteen, there were now sixteen if you counted Bilbo, herself and Gandalf. Even if he knew all of his kin by sight it would still be overwhelming for him to see so many at once.

She was fine with this; it gave her time to watch him undisturbed. Of his nephews, it seemed Kili's appearance was closer to that of Thorin's than Fili's. He was tall for a Dwarf, her height if she had to guess, with a dark ebony mane of curly hair and a shorter, equally black beard. His eyes were the same icy blue she'd come to know and peered out as a strict contrast to the darkness of his other features. His face was weathered, but not ugly in fact she found him quite handsome. He moved with an aura of severity, a seeming constant challenge to the world as a whole that seemed to impose on those in the room. It was added to by the admiration of his kin. My! How they admired him, she could practically feel it in the air. She didn't hide, but she didn't make a point of standing out either and she felt relief as the two young brothers made their way back to sit with her. Clearly, they enjoyed her company just as Gandalf had hoped they would.

More ale was distributed and nearly all of the Dwarves pulled out smoking pipes, simple and unpretentious quite like her master's. When she was in Kinreth, the men made a point of getting the most intricate pipes they possibly could for times such as these and used them as a way to express their wealth. The Dwarves, she found, were refreshingly pure in their intentions. Smoking their pipes simply to enjoy one another's company and the smell of pure tobacco leaf. A rather nice, sweet smell that she had never really minded.

She allowed herself to similarly indulge, sneaking her flask out to pour a tiny bit of her liquor into her tea. Her discretion, while it was effective with the Dwarves, earned her a startled look from Bilbo who had recently returned to the room and a dark look from the wizard. She shrugged at him with a tiny quirk of her lips, raising the cup to take a sip. It was only a little bit.

Thorin had begun eating not long ago and had finally spotted her while his eyes had roamed the table. They narrowed and he leant to mutter something to Balin, forcing Bofur between them to lean back with an uncomfortable look on his face. Balin used his hand, still buried in his own deep red jacket, to gesture towards Gandalf who stood to the other side of Thorin, hovering thoughtfully. The prince changed his line of inquiry and the wizard said something that, while he clearly didn't enjoy it, had pacified the sullen Dwarf. She had a feeling the argument of her presence wasn't over but for now it appeared she was fine. Her attention was drawn to a hushed, polite conversation with the two brothers and they had a lovely conversation about the various places in Eriador she'd visited, mainly the Shire, before the meeting officially began.

"What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?" Balin asked loudly, introducing the first order of business. "Did they all come?"

"Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms." Thorin said, pausing in the consumption of his meal. At the news the Dwarves expressed pleasure, some even laughing in relief.

She listened intently but felt an increasing discomfort; like she was hearing things that really weren't her place. And they weren't, really. These were Dwarf affairs and had her master not been in the Dwarf prince's confidence she wouldn't be anywhere near here. She of course knew what was going on, Gandalf having explained his meeting with the Dwarf prince to her and his feeling that the time had come for the Dwarves to return to Erebor.

Gandalf had feelings about things, but she was certain that was just his way of saying that he'd had a premonition. Perhaps even a direct message from the Valar wouldn't put it passed him, he seemed to know things that no one else could possibly know and had the most complex relationship with fate she'd ever heard of. After watching the mysterious wizard work she secretly came to the conclusion that the old man did more than just know things he shouldn't. Sometimes it almost felt as if he guided fate or more accurately, ensured someone's fate came to pass. It was this vague understanding of her master's mystery that allowed her to ignore his cryptic warnings or strikingly accurate comments on situations.

"And what do the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say?" Dwalin asked on behalf of the group, seeming a step ahead of the rest of them, "Is Dain with us?"

She'd heard Gandalf speak of Dain vaguely and could only really recall that he was a cousin of Thorin's. Although based upon this she could assume that he held some power in the Iron Hills, which, after Erebor's fall had become the largest of the Dwarven settlements of Middle Earth.

There was a silence as Thorin appeared exasperated, as if remembering some great argument over that very topic. And there very well could have been as he finally said, "They will not come. They say this quest is ours and ours alone." The Dwarves began voicing their displeasure quietly, looking to one another with disappointment. Clearly, many of them had believed this Dain would help them otherwise there would not have been this level grief over it. Gandalf even looked rather exasperated at the news.

Probably cursing the stubbornness of Dwarves.

"You're…going on a quest?" Bilbo asked and stated simultaneously, clearly still trying to figure out what was going on. She'd nearly forgot he was there until he'd spoken and then felt rather bad for his clear confusion. Gandalf turned to him and requested more light while Thorin seemed to immediately become quietly irked by the reminder of the hobbit's presence, focusing on his meal once more. She sipped her tea, watching as Bilbo shuffled off quickly to get more candles and Gandalf pulled out a map. He'd allowed her to look at it when he'd first mentioned their latest venture so she didn't need to guess at what the map was for or what it looked like. It was a map to Erebor, more specifically a map that spoke of a secret entrance into the mountain. The Dwarves discussed the map and Bilbo leaned in curiously.

"The Lonely Mountain…" He read out loud, sounding each word carefully.

"Aye, Oin has read the portents and the portents say it is time!" Gloin burst out, as if daring any to argue with him. His brother followed suit from next to where she sat, the quiet Dwarf's sudden noise making her jump and then sip her tea thoughtfully while he told of what he knew.

"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold: When the birds of yore, return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end." He informed the group.

There was an awed silence, only interrupted by Bilbo's inquiry. "Um, what beast?"

"That would be a reference to "Smaug the Terrible", dear Bilbo. He is counted among the chiefest and greatest calamities of this age." She stated, drawing the attention of those around the table. She raised an eyebrow at the questioning looks shot her way – of course she'd heard of Smaug. Things had been explained to her quite thoroughly by her wizard master. Of course she knew about the dragon.

"Aye! Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals –"Bofur took over for her, taking Bilbo's rather bland expression as a sign that he wasn't sure what she was talking about.

"Yes, I know what a dragon is." Bilbo snapped in an effort to make the Dwarf stop.

"I'm not afraid! I'm up for it! I'll give him a taste of the Dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!" Ori, the youngest of the assembled Dwarves ended the silence when he sprung from his seat directly across from her. She had to give him credit, it was quite the proclamation. There was an echo of mixed approval and disapproval from the older Dwarves present and the youngling's oldest brother reached up and dragged him back to his seat.

"The task would be difficult with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen and not thirteen of the best…nor brightest." Balin cut through the noise and commanded the group's attention with his steady voice. But his comment on their intelligence had garnered some dispute, the Dwarves not pleased with being called "dim" in any sense. The reaction to the comment only seemed to subtly prove his point however.

"What did he say?" Oin asked from beside her and she chose not to reply to the hearing impaired Dwarf. It's not like it would do much good.

"We may be few in number," Fili began on her other side and the conviction in his voice drew the attention of everyone, "but we're fighters, all of us, to the last Dwarf!"

She could see a bit of his uncle in him now. From what the two had told her in conversation the older Dwarf had practically raised them, considering they had lost their father young and the elder of the brothers seemed to naturally command attention just like him. She imagined his uncle would have expected nothing less of him. His younger brother lacked the finesse; instead the young Dwarf's excitement reminded her of a puppy.

"And you forget," he said, "we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time." Yes, she couldn't help but think after hearing his addition to the conversation, definitely a puppy. But she meant that with the utmost respect.

The Dwarves proceeded to hound Gandalf on the subject of how many dragons he had killed and the old wizard choked on his pipe smoke. He seemed to be trying to avoid the question. Indeed, she had asked Gandalf a similar question all those months ago when he'd first asked for her help in this endeavour; he had refused to answer. She fought off the wry smirk that desired to make itself known. His reply had been that with her talent of tongue and experience with the dark and dangerous, she would be enough to develop the 'dragon killing' department. Not that she had ever killed a dragon herself, but she had used her cunning against one once. To save the hero who would kill the beast, as a matter of fact.

Not all of her works were pure works of fiction after all – few in Middle Earth could fathom the horrors that lurked in The Northern Wastes where she had once dared to venture. _Silverquill's Little Book of Horrors_ was more than just a fable of a terrifying adventure. It was an account of the adolescent years of her life, which left her dying on the edge of the South Downs, unknowingly awaiting a wandering wizard to appear and save her.

Somehow, this had caused the Dwarves to erupt into a lively argument. There was shouting and finger pointing, words that were both known and foreign to Faylinn spewed from bearded mouths. She wasn't exactly sure what they were arguing about any more. It was all quite amusing for a few moments, until she ran out of spiked tea and had Fili's ale spilled all over her lap. Which of course, resulted in a different argument altogether. Truthfully being shouted over with no regard to your presence isn't much fun.

" _Shazara!"_ The shout surprisingly quieted the bunch. Her eyes slid over to the Dwarf prince, who was standing now. Staring down his kin with a fierce but stony expression. Bright or not, the message was easily received. Enough was enough. She wondered what the word had meant but disregarded the thought soon after; it didn't matter presently. All that mattered was that it had worked.

"If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for 60 years." She took the groups rapt attention to slip away, past Bilbo, into the other room to try and dry her now ale covered skirts. There was a time when consistently smelling like a booze-soaked, gutter rat would not have bothered her. Truthfully she had smelt of worse things, namely fish guts and orc blood being among the most foul. Nonetheless, for someone who was a recovering drunkard smelling of such things was rather unseemly. Especially when your wizard master's disapproving gaze followed you constantly. She stretched the wet spot thin between her hands, hoping to somehow speed the drying. Behind her, she heard the prince continue.

"Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize the chance to take back Erebor? _Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!_ " His ominous warning had turned into a rallying chant that she found surprisingly convincing, considering part of being so silver-tongued herself was rarely being swayed by others. A loud cheer erupted from the assembled Dwarves, who only moments before were squabbling amongst themselves. Her interest piqued. She glanced in the assembled Dwarves' direction once more, staring at the back of the Dwarf prince's head. Her intrigue renewed once more.

Balin said something, something that brought a darker mood to the group though she didn't hear them for as the regal Dwarf moved to sit once more, his eyes caught hers and held them – until she managed to look away. Her mind was swimming for a brief moment. All the kings, princes and heroes she'd written of in her works – none of which had a bearing quite like his.

"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true." She heard her master's voice now and continued trying to dry her skirt. Bilbo, bless him, had noticed her dilemma and had returned with a damp cloth. Not necessarily good for drying but it might get rid of a bit of the smell. She thanked him with a smile and he crept closer to Thorin's back to view the goings on.

"How came you by this?" Thorin asked lowly, which forced her to at least glance over to see what he was speaking of. It was a key. Presumably a Dwarvish key, which held the company's attention and seemed to spark some wonder. Gandalf revealed its origins to be that of Thorin's father and handed it over purposefully.

"If there is a key, there must be a door." Fili announced from his seat, which seemed to fill the gathered Dwarves with even more wonder. As if they hadn't realized that immediately. Perhaps Balin wasn't too far of the mark with his questionable intelligence comment…

Her master pointed to the map with his pipe, running the edge along a string of Dwarf runes that she couldn't comprehend. She continued to dab at her skirt until she was satisfied she'd done all she could she glanced around for the entrance that she remembered belonging to the kitchen. She went and placed the cloth in the wash basin and when she returned the group seemed to be in the midst of a new discussion. Or rather, argument.

"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is."

Her eyes slid to her master, who seemed to have grown angry with the group's bickering and rose to his full height. Perhaps it was just a trick of her imagination, but she could have sworn that the room had darkened and that the vase to her left had wrung as if about to shatter. It eased up as he realized he had the room's full attention and he went on to explain the positives of a hobbit. She hadn't really thought about it, but she supposed Gandalf was right about their burglar potential. After all, in her time in Middle Earth she had heard of every race and even met a dragon, but had it not been for Gandalf, she would have never know hobbits existed.

"You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen . There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know…including himself." He dared the group to question him and then added lowly, so only the few who were sitting closest could hear. "You must trust me on this."

Her stomach clenched at the way the old wizard's eyes burrowed into the Dwarf prince's. You must trust me on this, he'd said. A familiar sentence. Something else the old wizard was aware of that he shouldn't be? She wondered if Thorin found the wizard's words as ominous as she did. She had moved to stand behind the prince's right shoulder during the discussion and had almost felt when the prince conceded.

"Very well. We will do it your way. Give him a contract." He barked to Balin, who passed the piece of parchment to Thorin. She could vaguely hear Bilbo's protests and Balin's explanation over the sudden excited murmur in the room. In truth her eyes were still glued to the solemn Dwarf leader, who took the contract and slapped it backwards onto the hobbit's chest. She could tell he'd noticed her staring, due to his pointed avoidance of where she was standing, but could care less. She'd never pictured a prince like him before, nor had she ever pictured any of her heroes like so, but he matched the role so well. She was determined to memorize him, to burn him to her memory for her literary usage. Such powerful, genuine people were difficult to come by.

She heard Bilbo muttering behind them, having moved away from his guests to read the ever growing piece of parchment. Thorin was mumbling something to Gandalf, although all she heard was "Understood" and "Agreed" solemnly coming from the wizard's mouth. He was obviously displeased with something the Dwarf had said, but resigned as well – as if he'd expected it. The prince moved to stand, at first facing her but when they locked eyes he bluntly turned his back on her. Deciding to face the other direction. Odd, usually those she chose to observe took longer to notice her attention – and when they did reacted in a more curious manner. Perhaps he thought she was going to be a bother, perhaps he mistook her attention for fawning.

She'd once asked Gandalf if her studious gaze could ever be mistaken for something other than just that, studying. She'd seen the doe eyed girls gazing at their interests in the villages she'd passed through and it had occurred to her that her studying could be mistaken for interest. The old wizard, riding upon his own mount at her side, had simply chuckled. A mischievous chuckle, unbecoming of the elderly in her opinion. Far more suited to young boys hiding in hay lofts to avoid their chores than of a wizard. He'd assured her that her studying could not be mistaken for such; her face looked far too grim when in observation to suggest any form of affection.

So, she expected any reaction to her grim studying other than bluntly being avoided or ignored.

"…then poof! You're nothing more than a pile of ash!" She'd been so distracted she hadn't been paying attention and was disturbed when she glanced at the hobbit to find him looking quite faint. She pitied him really. To think just talking about a dragon would send him into such a tizzy!

"Nope." Bilbo said simply before he collapsed abruptly, earning a startled "Oh!" from her lips. She walked over to stare down at him, before crouching to pick him up. She was lucky he was so small, even she was able to hoist him up and glance around for a sitting room of some kind.

"Just down the hall and to the left, if you don't mind, Faylinn. You'll find a rather comfy armchair."

XxX

After placing Bilbo in the aged, brown armchair in his sitting room, she moved to make herself comfortable somewhere in the hall. She sat quietly, spotting a hobbit sized bottle of wine which had escaped the Dwarves and rolled under a nearby end table. She picked it up, glanced around and then uncorked it – drawing in a decent mouthful of the thick, red liquid. She glanced at the year, but as the year was by Shire reckoning she couldn't tell. Not that she cared – she was the kind of drinker who could drink poison and call it posh. She leaned up against the wall, knees bent slightly and legs spread so that the bottle could be placed upon her skirts.

A rather unladylike position, but the matter of what was going to happen to her while Gandalf championed this mad quest was still up in the air and she needed some wine to help her think of anything else. She would like to go. To study and be inspired by a real adventure again. It had been 6 years since she'd come within 100 yards of a real quest, with real heroes. Not that the last quest had left her with a desire for anything other than death. But that was the Northern Wastes; that was a frozen hell that man was not meant to set foot in. That was different.

She heard the Dwarves shuffling and muttering, they'd all chosen to camp together on the floor in the hobbit's parlour – despite the many rooms to choose from. For now they were smoking and talking quietly amongst one another, an unspoken sadness had fallen over the group like a blanket. The prospect of going burglar less didn't seem to appeal to any of them and seemed to feel like a setback. She considered talking Bilbo into it, feeling sorry for the company, but then reminded herself of the repercussions. If she talked the little thing into coming and then, the Valar forbid, he died she would shoulder that guilt for as long as she still had. It was not an appealing thought. She was able to live with many burdens; shame, loneliness, self-loathing but she would never add guilt to the list. No one would ever suffer because she made a poor decision or used her silver tongue to wind the hands of fate. So far, she'd managed a guilt free life and she was determined to keep it that way.

She took another swig, pretending not to hear the conversation that had sprung up between Thorin and Balin. The two had been quietly watching Bilbo and Gandalf's discussion and had not seemed to notice her sitting form.

"It appears we have lost our burglar. Probably for the best. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy-makers; hardly the stuff of legend." Balin said wearily, trying to hide his own disappointment but clearly failing. The rejection of this Dain character seemed to have caused quite the wound. The wine had loosened her lips and she couldn't help herself as the words fell from her mouth.

"I wouldn't say that!" She called far more loudly then she'd meant to, startling the two. They were shocked at her presence although seemed to realize that she'd been there the whole time and wasn't purposefully eavesdropping. After all, she appeared rather comfortable, slumped against the wall with a bottle of red wine descending from her lips as she spoke. Eyeing the two Dwarves with a pair of flint arrowheads for eyes. There was a teasing lilt to her voice as she spoke, her best attempt at trying to lighten the aging Dwarf's mood. She doubted anything could help the solemn prince, so she didn't even try. She pushed herself up and away from the wall with a mild sway to her step.

"Legends aren't about the characters, Master Balin." She explained, as if to a child, "Legends, are about the deeds. Sure a tinker is just a tinker, until he does something extraordinary – then he becomes a hero. Who wants to hear the tale about the run-of-the-mill warrior who does some ordinary deed and then becomes a hero like all the others? Now," she began pointing to the two with a mischievous grin, "the merchants, miner, tinkers and toy-makers with the odds against them, who followed their beggar king on some mad quest to take back their dragon guarded city? That's the one I want to hear. As someone who has devoted their life to the telling of tales and the collection of great legends, Dwarf masters, I can honestly say that you _are_ the stuff of legends."

The two remained quiet, although a twinkle seemed to appear in the white haired Dwarf's eye. The Dwarf prince opened his mouth to say something, bright blue eyes borrowing into her but she heard Gandalf call her name and with a smile, she placed the bottle of wine in Balin's hands and quickly moved into the room the wizard was waiting in. The conversation between the two Dwarves seemed to have started again, but both sounded surer of themselves now. She was glad her gift had proven itself useful once again. But just because it was what they wanted to hear, didn't mean that it wasn't the truth. She really did think that. Bilbo had gone to his room, clearly displeased with everyone in his home. Gandalf smiled a small smile when he saw her.

"Well, at least I always have you to count on, Faylinn." He said tiredly. She wanted to question him but stayed silent, eyes tracing his weathered visage.

"I'll be speaking to Thorin tonight about your presence on the quest. He might need some more persuading, but I am confident that you will be joining us tomorrow morning. Get a good night's rest." He placed a hand on her shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture and she nodded in return. She left the room almost as quickly as she'd entered, finding the Dwarf prince still there. He was leaning against the wall where she'd previously been sitting, alone. Where Balin had gone she did not know.

"Gandalf tells me you have a gift. A silver tongue that you can use to buy a man's soul and then sell it back to him for twice the price." His voice was hard and rather accusing. She knew what he wanted to hear. She wasn't sure how she knew, but like he said it was a "gift". Somehow she always knew what people wanted to hear. For instance, right now, the prince wanted to hear her say that it was just flattery on Gandalf's part. He wanted her to say that it was nothing more than well-developed charisma. He didn't want anything that could prove to be dangerous around him or his men. That included trolls, orcs and young women who had the ability to convince a man that he had lost his own head when it clearly sat upon his shoulders. But he most likely understood how the presence of a wizard's vassal could be useful, so he wanted her to say that there was nothing peculiar about her at all.

But that wasn't the truth, at least not in her opinion. True, at first she had thought it was simply talent. But then, when she was questioned, she often found that she knew things about the oppositions thought process that she really shouldn't. She also didn't have to think about what she should say; the words were always _there_ the second she needed them. Lingering on the tip of her silver tongue. Sometimes she didn't know what she was going to say until she said it, often just as impressed with her gift as everyone else was. Yes, there was what the Dwarf prince wanted to hear…and then there was the truth.

"I will not lie to you and while people find that hard to believe, especially if my master takes the time to explain my…ability…I know the difference between what someone wants to hear and the truth. I can decide not use it or I can. For instance, you wanted me to imply that this was just flattery on Gandalf's part, since you see my uses. But instead of telling you that I'm telling you the truth – the truth is," she paused slightly trying to fight off the even more intense look the Dwarf was giving her, "that I've never tried to buy a man's soul. I have no use for such things. But I did manage to outwit a dragon once with this gift and that's why I'm here, standing before you. Gandalf thought that fate brought me to him for something very specific. What for exactly he's never told me. So I do what he tells me and I hope, one day, my gift proves as useful to him as he says it is. His latest use of me, seems to be to accompany you and your people; to help you. So there you are, that's the truth and hopefully you found enough of it disagreeable to believe me."

He was quiet and brought a hand up to rest on his chin in contemplation.

"Very well." He said simply and then moved to head towards the parlour, most likely to join his kin. She watched him go, the two of them sharing another hard look when he stopped to look back at her one more time. Then he turned again and disappeared into the parlour. Feeling thoroughly intimidated, she turned and moved towards another room in the hole where a brown chaise sat beneath to a rather large window. She curled up there, noting that the window would allow her to be woken by first light and began to drift off to sleep to the sound of the Dwarves singing. She picked out Thorin's low tone amongst them, leading the solemn tune and pondered the words.

She wondered at the story behind it until she fell asleep; the unknown story of trees like torches that blazed with light…

XxX

 **Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I worry I may wear out my Hobbit movies while writing this, as I am following the movie version as closely as possible. I make no secret that this is ThorinxOC, but I look forward to making it a moderately slow burn kind of story. Moderately. It won't take 100 chapters…at least I don't think so. I can't see myself being that dedicated - it's against my nature. That being said I have planned for this story to be split into two "Parts". However both parts will be posted within the same story.**

 **Just thought I'd let people know my formatting thoughts in case any were wondering. Now, about the outwitting a dragon thing Fayinn mentioned, I draw reference to the prologue – the fourth paragraph from the bottom (easier to count that way than the other way, haha).** _ **"She met a great many men, journeyed to a great many places and though she would never identify them, did a great many things. But those great men died, she left those great places and those great things she did were soon forgotten. The things she had truly done became fable and she was left once more with only her dark and twisted thoughts."**_

 **Rest assured, I thoroughly intend to have that explained better either within the next chapter or, if I can't make that work, the chapter after that. I will be trying to finish the next chapter within decent time and since I'm using working on this story to procrastinate on something else, the odds are most likely in our favor.**

 **Also, I dedicate this chapter to Andrea – to whom I promised would have this chapter by the end of December, but has it now – nearly by the end of February. I could make an excuse, but it would be a lie. Haha, don't kill me…**

 **Apparently I need to work on commitments.**

 **Until next time,**

 _ **~ Orthodoxlily**_


	3. Part 1: Chapter 2

**Guided Fates**

 **~xXx~ Part One ~xXx~**

 **Chapter 2**

The next morning found Faylinn in good health; she rose early and discovered that her master was already awake although she wouldn't be surprised if he had not slept at all. When she actually took the time to think about it, she was not entirely sure she had ever actually seen the aged man sleep. That is, if he really was a man at all. There were often times when she had her doubts.

As she sat across from him at the Hobbit's tiny table, watching as he fiddled with his simple pipe, it occurred to her that this was one of those times. Between them was a small wooden bowl, heaped with ripened red apples that she was surprised had survived the Dwarvish siege on the pantry. She reached for one, rolling it in her palm slightly and studying the glare on it that the still feint morning light was causing. Her eyes trailed in response to the nearest window. Dawn was not yet upon them, not entirely, but the sky was bleeding pink, the colour crowning the distant hills and casting golden whisps of light into the still room.

To compensate for the still absent light, a single candle in a brass holder sat in the table's centre.

They were the only two awake presently. The dwarves seemed to be indulging in a few extra minutes of secure sleep as the feint chorus of snores drifted from the parlour. Such a common thing as uninterrupted sleep would likely soon become a luxury to the group in the days to come. Due to her vast experience as a nomad and later a vassal, she was all too aware of the trials of living on the road or journeying for many months. Despite being well versed in the life of a vagabond, Faylinn had to admit that she would miss the cozy Hobbit-hole. Just because you were accustomed to something or even just good at something, did not necessarily mean you liked it.

Originally, she had lived nomadically from necessity. She was poor, she had no family to claim her, no husband to love her (or even just have her) and no particularly useful skills to speak of. If she'd had a family, a roof over her head, she would have gladly stayed there – no matter how unseemly that family and roof may have been. It could have been the leakiest roof in Middle Earth, made of muddy thatch and cobwebs and she'd still have worshipped it. Because at least, even if it was crumbling, it was a place of security and purpose. It would be place where she could belong. The truth of the matter was that she had lost those securities at a very young age and they weren't likely to return.

So, she lived on the road and when she discovered her talent of tongue she talked. She wandered and talked. That was what she knew and then over time it became what she was accustomed to. It won her a house once, one that she must not have been fated to have because it was taken from her soon after. It won her a house which was not as good as a home, but it was still better than what she had presently. When she was turned out in the world again so unexpectedly, she quickly came to the realization that she still didn't know how to do anything other than wander and weave stories, writing them down if the opportunity came. Certainly she was literate now, but literacy was essentially talking in a different form. Her skills, or lack there-of, hadn't changed.

She wandered and talked. But she didn't like it – perhaps she was just scared to do anything else. After all, she didn't really _know_ how to do anything else so why should she even bother.

It was rather humorous, she thought. No, humorous was not exactly the right word – perhaps ironic was better suited? Yes. It was rather _ironic_ that she, like all people in the world, was compelled to do things within the realm of what she knew; simply _because_ they were the things she knew and was used to. Yet, she despised those things and the more she did them, the further away she got from what she really wanted in life.

Her relationship with her own nomadic lifestyle was a complex one. On one hand, she had the freedom to search for her hearts truest desire, day in and day out, should she but have the inclination to do so. On the other hand, the more steps she took – the more days she went wandering the roads alone and delivering messages – it almost felt as if she was getting farther away. It was frustrating, really. Perhaps she felt so stagnant because her days spent in 'freedom' were days she spent in service to another. Most of her journeying was spent with the purpose of delivering messages, not of searching for her own purposes. But, she supposed, that was likely her own fault. She had bound herself to the wizard's service completely of her own accord as he hadn't asked for anything in return for saving her life.

Yes, it took her until she had been in Gandalf's service for four years before she realized what it was she really wanted and she figured out that every step she took, everything she did, seemed to take her farther and farther away from her hearts true desire.

She sighed audibly, shocking herself. She hadn't even felt it welling up and she certainly hadn't meant to react outwardly to her thoughts.

From across the table, she saw her wizard master's eyes shift towards her and she wondered if it was possible he was aware of where her thoughts had wandered. Of course he was. He had proven time and again he knew her even better than she knew herself. It wasn't until recently that she knew what it was that she desired more than anything else and she had only come to this revelation after weeks, months even, of solemn self-reflection. A self-reflection the old conjurer had prompted to begin with, as if coaxing a child to take its first steps. Her face flushed red from humiliation at the mere remembrance and the understanding that she had been treated like a child. Though to him, she supposed she likely was nothing more than an infant. She wasn't sure how old he was but she also had a feeling she was better off not knowing.

She understood herself better now thanks to him. What she wanted, more than anything else in the world, was a home.

Not just a house, which was essentially a building to live in or even a community of people she called neighbours, but a real _home._

It was a hard thing to describe, she supposed. She was a writer after all; on occasion she would sit with her little bound book of blank parchment and try to find the words to describe exactly what she meant. She'd tried poetry and prose, before finally settling with a collection of broken phrases. After all that stressing and fussing, all those crossed-out and blotched ink characters, she had created a collection of halted phrases that came close. Or at least closer than she'd ever come before. Close enough for her to be somewhat satisfied with it.

She cast a glance in the old wizard's direction slyly, noting he appeared to have returned his attention elsewhere, before reaching into the pouch on her belt that held her valuables. She thumbed her little book. She'd collected the parchment and bound it Coptic -ally with thin, rolled leather stripping. The cover was browned leather she'd procured from a butcher in some unnamed village, which made it thin and flexible. It couldn't have been much bigger than a saucer, not much good for writing stories but she found it was perfect for giving her some peace of mind.

Numerous pages within were covered in illegible, words and paragraphs scored simply because they didn't meet their desired purpose. Then, on the very last piece of parchment, in the very middle of it and written in an untidy scrawl, that no one would even recognize as her own, were words that held more meaning to her than any others.

 _Home is not a place. It is a feeling._

 _It is a feeling that exists in imperfect form somewhere._

 _Only when I find it will I know it._

The words almost seemed nonsensical, she knew, but to her it was the closest she had ever come to describing her fiercest desire. Her home. Her home wasn't just a place of fancy; she wasn't speaking of four walls and a roof located on some far-off a green meadow. It wasn't tangible like that. It was a feeling that she was searching for.

She was looking for a feeling.

How silly that sounded, but it was the truth. How could you desire something so fiercely that you'd never saw or experienced before? If a man was born blind and lived blind, if he'd never known anything else and no one had ever spoken of it to him before – how did he know he desired the light? It was a mystery she would never fully understand. She'd never felt this feeling before, but she knew when she found it, she'd recognize it. She also knew that it was what she wanted more than anything else.

"A feeling," She said aloud to no one although she had to admit it was partially an attempt to reassure herself, "one I'll know when I feel it for the first time."

"It is hard to seek something that you cannot see." The wizard across from her burst in and she realized that his blue eyes, twinkling as always, were locked on her again. "Just as it is nearly impossible to want something you do not yet know."

She stared at him silently for a moment, actively trying to use her gift to penetrate his mind and failing miserably. He was the one being on earth that always had her speechless. She mulled his riddle over and tried to decide if he was providing advice or some form of hint. Or maybe a warning.

"But I _do_ want something I've never known." She tried to emphasize, staring at him. Was he trying to tell her that there was no way she could really want it if she didn't know it? No. He couldn't be. He had been the one to guide her to that realization in the first place - he couldn't be recanting on it. It also wouldn't be in his nature to do so. So then what was he trying to say? A Dwarf's snoring hitched in the adjacent room and she reminded herself to keep her voice low. Whatever conversation was going on between her and the wizard she was sure would sound like insane babbling to an outsider. It sounded like insane babbling to her.

"Exactly!" The wizard agreed, aiming the end of his pipe at her enthusiastically. He was acting like she had won something as a result of some particularly hard contest he had devised. Which she hadn't. She didn't understand what he was trying to tell her at all. So this mirth of his only resulted in making her feel rather stupid and quite teased. So her cheeks reddened and she couldn't stop the childish reaction that followed.

She scoffed, sounding almost disgusted, and crossed her arms; aware her irritation was likely amusing to him. No matter what it was he was trying to tell her, and how cross she was with him, she knew she should at least remember his words for later. Maybe it would all make sense when she was able to be alone with her thoughts. Then again, there was the possibility she'd never understand. Trying to decipher the meaning now was threatening to give her a headache and if she was about to embark on a journey with thirteen Dwarves she would rather do so without her head pounding. He was the only being in the world that she never had a response for and he took full advantage of it.

As if it had been timed, there were the sounds of light footsteps coming from the parlour and she looked to the archway. The Dwarf prince was there, eyeing both she and her master like they had been conspiring against him. Said wizard had returned his focus to his pipe, barely paying the new arrival any mind at all, which only succeeded in making him look rather suspicious.

The again, she supposed that was in his nature. Being suspicious on purpose when he had nothing to hide, likely doing do for his own entertainment. Despite his lax attitude, she knew from experience that the man was quick as a whip and had a mind like a puzzle box. He always had a trick in mind or some sort of knowledge he really shouldn't have, which coupled with a wicked sense of humour could prove rather dangerous to those around him. Not to mention irritating.

A few moments later, the prince's elder nephew appeared behind him; his behaviour suggesting that he had been awake for some time. He didn't appear fatigued or groggy at all, in fact neither of them did and she wondered if they had heard their hushed exchange. From the look on the prince's face she felt she could safely assume that all he'd heard was hushed tones, not their words. But Fili seemed to be eyeing the wizard and his vassal like they had just revealed themselves capable of spinning wool into gold. Slightly awed, mostly curious, very speculative.

Without a word, Thorin approached the table where the two sat and slid a chair back so he too could sit. Fili followed suit, and soon all four sat in a compass-like formation around the Hobbit's table. There was a few long minutes where no one spoke and in place of words the air filled with unexplained tension. Gandalf appeared unfazed, but Thorin's mere presence made the room grow heavy and kept her crushingly silent where normally she would have used her charm.

Finally remembering the apple in her hand, she wiped it on her chest from habit and took a slow bite. The crunch cut through the quiet and in response she suddenly became what everyone else chose to stare at. Well, she needed to eat. It wasn't her fault this was where the Dwarf had chosen to sit his royal behind.

Nonetheless, she chewed her food slowly, hoping to reduce the amount of noise made. She was back to marvelling like the previous night – what a presence! She was surprised half the Shire wasn't covered in storm clouds caused by the prince's mere existence.

Finally he spoke.

"We'll have to wake the rest up. If we're going to make the market in Bree we'll need to leave soon." His voice was low and almost made her jump, despite having expected him to do so. After sitting in silence for so long it was like getting doused with a bucket of cold water. It was a shock to the system.

He seemed to be looking at his nephew, but it was clear that all in the room were meant to take note. He was right, the farmers would have already arrived in the market square by now and most, if not all, would be gone by noon. Selling was a morning affair, unless you were fortunate enough to have a literate wife who also knew her numbers. That was nearly unheard of; learned women were born to and married into the nobility or higher class. So for most farmers in Eriador, it was up to him to sell his wares in the morning and then head back to his leased land for noon.

She looked out the window again. In the few minutes they'd been sitting there the sun itself had begun to peak over the hills. The former whisps of light were now concentrated beams. Already, perishable foodstuffs like eggs and cheeses would be nearly sold out but if they left now, they'd still be able to purchase some dried meats and bread to last the first leg of their journey.

But food wasn't the problem.

Certainly thirteen resourceful Dwarves of various trades, with weapons would be capable of finding food on the road. She knew Thorin was more concerned about the ponies. Thirteen ponies would be hard to come by in one place, or at least thirteen ponies that were for sale on the same market day. The odds were not in their favour and she was genuinely surprised they had waited this long to procure them.

"Why did you wait this long to procure the ponies, if I may ask? Why not just have everyone buy their own on the way here?" She asked, attempting to sound curious and not scolding. After all, she was sure they had their reasons. She just wanted to know what they were.

Thorin looked about to tell her that she _may not_ ask but his sister-son spoke, leaving the Dwarf prince with his mouth slightly open. He quickly closed it, his face morphing then into an exasperated expression.

"The fact is that some are wealthier than others and there are a few amongst us that would have been unable to afford their own mount. In order to make everything fair, Uncle thought it best to simply ask everyone to donate what they could afford to a shared pool of funds from which the company's expenses could be drawn from. If everyone's funds were pooled together, it would ensure that all members of the company were equally equipped for the journey." Fili explained, still looking rather impressed with the idea.

She had to admit she was too. It said a lot about his leadership ability as he seemed to be seeking a solution to make this whole endeavour as easy on his companions as possible. Not that it was easy in the slightest, but it was the thought that counts. Not to mention having some walk while others rode was not only impractical, given the distance, but a poor way to treat those who were loyally following you on a mad quest.

"That was a marvellous idea." Faylinn complimented looking the prince in the eye so he could see she was genuine, not that the esteemed Dwarf needed or wanted her approval. Indeed, she didn't know if she could have thought of that. He tilted his head in acknowledgment and she was sure that was likely the best she was ever going to get. In fact she was surprised she'd even gotten that much. She had begun to sense that along with his overwhelming bearing and stony gaze came a great deal of pride. "But at the same time, I worry we may not be able to find so many suitable ponies at once."

A furrow to his brow showed that he had also given that matter its due consideration. Typically, spring foals and yearlings were what sold in the market because they were in demand. Ponies and horses weren't plentiful this time of year already; most of the spring foals weren't old enough to be separated from their mother quite yet and certainly a foal wasn't good for their purposes anyway. Even the yearlings from the previous season would still be either too small or not yet broken. On occasion, someone tried to sell a pony or horse that was bit too long in the tooth to be much good either. For this sort of thing, they'd need solid adult ponies, preferably all mares for the sake of temperament and they'd need to be broken. That was a tall order, especially when you considered that they needed at least thirteen of them.

"Actually I was thinking on that very matter, Thorin." Gandalf said, not giving Thorin the opportunity to respond. "Perhaps it would be best to send someone ahead to Bree to get what they can there, while the rest of the company waits until the market here in Hobbiton opens. Surely you'll have better luck canvasing two marketplaces."

Thorin seemed to take a moment to digest this suggestion and nodded finally in agreement. No sooner had he done so and opened his mouth to make a response did Gandalf jump in again – it seemed the prince wasn't getting much of a chance to speak this morning. The two other men in the room seemed to be delighting in interrupting him.

"Wonderful. Faylinn, my dear, take Amfortas and head to Bree immediately. Y-" It seemed that Thorin was the one doing the interrupting this time and he glowered at the wizard stormily.

"You think I'd trust this stranger with the company's funds?" Gandalf went quiet for a moment and seemed to be staring at the Dwarf disapprovingly, pursing his thin lips together as he steeled himself for an argument. Thorin's posture became rigid in response, as if the expression was somehow taunting him.

She slid her eyes over to where the younger, blond Dwarf sat. Fili was leaning back in his chair, eyes sliding between his Uncle and the wizard while he munched quietly on an apple. He seemed content to enjoy the show and, after a moment's pause, she decided that she was too. This was set to be a battle of titans after all – not something a mere mortal such as she should willingly inject herself into. Not at first anyway, perhaps when they were through conjuring typhoons and erupting volcanoes she may stand a chance. Her apple was now gone, the core resting on the table before her, so she just crossed her arms and slumped, her neck resting halfway down the back of the chair and her bottom hanging off the edge of the seat. Her eyes moved from wizard to prince slowly, waiting for the first move.

"Faylinn is my vassal and has been for some time now. I trust her with my life." The aged man said slowly, as if speaking to a child who was on the verge of having a tantrum.

"But I do _not_. I know nothing of her, only what you've chosen to tell me. You have not proven yourself inclined to share very much in our past dealings. What I know, if it is even the truth, is not enough for me to simply hand her what was entrusted to me by those who believe in this expedition." As much as she did not enjoy being spoken of as if she was not present (which happened far more than she cared to admit) the prince did have a point.

Those who had chosen to join his company believed in him and had likely trusted him with a great deal of their personal funds in order to make the reclaiming of Erebor a reality. To hand that large sum off to someone who he didn't even really _know_ , who he'd only met the evening before, was certainly a lot to ask. Not to mention could be considered a huge betrayal of their trust.

The wizard and the prince continued to bicker quietly for a few minutes, the dawn dragged on, while the other two present watched on quietly. Eventually, however, it had begun to grow tiresome and it occurred to Faylinn that if someone didn't intervene soon, the market would have sold all the good ponies (if they had any) and the point would be moot.

"My name is Faylinn." She said steadily, her calm voice cutting through the hushed argument and drawing the attention of all parties present. She had moved to sit up perfectly straight, her hands now clenching the edges of her chair. She was using her gift and she knew it, but this little dispute had to end. Earlier, when Thorin had said 'I know nothing of her' she felt it. It was just a twinge, but her gift had picked up on what the prince had wanted to hear. He wanted to know more about her.

He was greatly distrustful, it was something that had been almost beaten into him by the world around him and Gandalf springing her presence on him last night had been the equivalent to his mind of throwing a fox in a chicken coop. In reflection, she supposed his attempt to intimidate her had been his response to the new anxiety of having her amongst his people. It didn't help that, she now realized, she and Thorin hadn't even been properly introduced. So right now, the only thing that would come close to pacifying him would be for her to partially satisfy his curiosity. He wasn't a simpleton, he'd know immediately that she'd used her gift, but she hoped it wouldn't anger him too much.

"I was born in the farming village of Anding here in Eriador, though I have also lived in the red city of Kinreth. My parents were farmers. I lost them both when I was young. I had a brother; I lost him too a little later. I was a beggar for much of my childhood, as I didn't know how to do anything else." She had the rapt attention of the entire group. She wouldn't tell him anything too personal but at least if he knew where she came from, she hoped it would pacify him.

"I owe master Gandalf a life-debt and so I chose to serve him, despite him telling me I may leave whenever I wish. I make my own coin by telling tales and record them on tomes which I sell, often to children. I enjoy seeing the looks on their faces when they hear my stories." She confessed, smiling as she remembered back to when she had left Bree yesterday morning. She had some spare time, so she had stopped to tell them a quick story about a human man who was very strong and a cunning raven who tricked him into performing heroic tasks. It had been a rather humorous tale and she remembered their dimpled cheeks, faces flushed with laughter and eyes glittering with pure joy.

"My favourite colour is blue, like a robin's egg. I dislike jelly tarts. I like wine," this earned a scowl from Gandalf, "many would say too much. I would rather be hot than cold and I fear being confined. I have a gift of speech for which I have no explanation that allows me to know exactly what it is someone _wants_ to hear - though I must confess, I prefer to tell the truth. I feel better afterwards."

There was silence. Again. There'd been a lot of that going around that morning. Fili was staring at her with slightly widened eyes. Whether his reaction was due to his finding out about her gift, which it occurred to her he had not previously been aware of, or due to the fact that she had so calmly interrupted the verbal battle, she wasn't sure.

"So now, Thorin Oakenshield," she began as she eyed the men in the room, "I would like to inform you that you are now among those in this world who know the most about me. The others are also sitting in this very room. The only person now, who knows me better than you, would be Master Gandalf and I must confess that is not a choice I was allowed to make. It's hard to hide things from someone who annoyingly knows you better than yourself."

She wasn't looking him in the eye, partially embarrassed by her 'big reveal' which she knew was still less than most people knew about one another, but she could feel his gaze burning into the side of her head. She locked eyes with the wizard, who seemed to be attempting to hide a smile in his beard. Maybe because she finally confessed she found him annoying. She frowned at him.

There was a scraping sound of wood on wood and she finally looked in Thorin's direction to find him standing over her. It actually startled her slightly and she leaned away instinctually. She squinted her eyes as she finally looked him directly in his own, attempting to penetrate his mind as only her gift only allowed her to do. But she met a metaphorical wall - a wall that she'd only encountered a few times before. A wall that meant at that very moment, he didn't want to hear anything out of her at all. In fact he'd be rather content if she stayed silent and let him speak. It was his turn.

"I like to think I have a gift too." He said with an almost casual tone, which was completely adverse to his body language and actions as he narrowed his eyes and made a point of starring down at her. Intimidation. She wasn't sure she'd ever met anyone who did it better. "It's the ordinary, everyday sort. It's something I earned through years of hardship." She stayed silent and pondered where he was going with this. She felt the urge to look to the room's other to occupants for some kind of hint, not used to being out of her element in a conversation, but felt that if she tore her eyes away from his he'd be…insulted?

"It's a gift of intuition. I can tell when someone lies to me. All I have to do is look them in the eye." His voice had become quieter. Was that what he had done last night? He chose to believe her because his intuition told him she was telling the truth? She didn't say anything; she just made a point of staring back.

"Swear an oath. All Dwarves, no matter their place of birth or kingdom, swear an oath to Durin's line when they come of age; loyalty to those of my kin is second nature." He said, eyes sliding to scan her entire face now as he searched for any sort of reluctance or disagreement with his words. "As for this quest, all have signed contracts – they get portions of the wealth of Erebor should we recover it. But you are not my kin and there is no contract made out for you. You get nothing. There is no incentive for you so there is little reason for me to trust in your character…except my own intuition." He paused and looked directly into her eyes again.

"So swear it. Swear an oath to do all within your power to help me," he glanced over top of her head quickly to where she was sure Fili still sat before he looked back into her eyes, "to help _Durin_ ' _s line_ reclaim what is ours. What is _theirs_." He emphasized and she was certain that he was thinking of his sister-sons and his heirs, likely safely locked away in the Blue Mountains.

He was such a strong character that this was really the first time it had occurred to her that he acknowledged there were risks. Risks he was prepared for. He wanted her to swear to lend her aid, her loyalty; to his nephews and children should anything happen to him. She suddenly had an urge to look at one of the contracts. Dwarves were renowned for their airtight contracts as most had a good head for business and she was sure this one would have been no exception. Her curiosity, as usual, would have to wait.

"Do you swear?" He asked finally.

"I do. I swear to do all within my power to assist the Line of Durin with the reclaiming of Erebor." She said without hesitation.

"What do you pledge?" He asked, never breaking eye contact with her. Ah, she'd heard of this. It was not something that was common knowledge outside the race of Dwarves, but in order for an oath to be considered binding the one swearing the oath needed to pledge the thing they held most dear. Should they break their oath, whatever they pledged was the right of the one they had broken the oath to (should they still live). According to the grey wizard, it was common for Dwarves to pledge their children, their wives, their freedoms – it was considered dishonest to pledge anything other than what you held most dear.

In the case of the oaths of loyalty which the prince had mentioned earlier, they were usually pledged with one's life. She couldn't help but muse how convenient it was that her Master had chosen to inform her of that particular part of Dwarf culture, out of all the other things there likely was to tell her about. She actively decided not to be suspicious, although it was hard. But even when Gandalf had first told her of that little fact she found fault with it for one specific reason. Her own life was not so precious to her.

She wasn't sure why, but the thought of her life being forfeit had never particularly frightened her. After all once you were dead it wasn't like you had the time to lament all the things you didn't get done. She had no doubts that The Halls of Mandos existed, but no one really knew what happened to them after. The Elves were reincarnated. As for Men? Only Mandos knew. So you get to the halls and then what? She couldn't see herself wasting her unforeseeable fate being tormented, maybe bored but not tormented, so why fear death?

So she remembered asking herself; what was most precious to her if not her own life?

She and Gandalf had ridden in silence after that conversation and she had the time to think on it. Finally, she decided that if her fiercest desire in this world was to find her home, then her most precious thing would be that which allowed her to search for it.

"I pledge my freedom." She said unflinchingly. She almost felt him stare harder, if such a thing was possible.

She felt Fili behind her shift uncomfortably and she realized that most would inherently consider their lives to be more important. Perhaps the young dwarf thought she was being dishonest, or even misunderstood the severity of the oath she had just taken. Perhaps he thought his Uncle would be insulted. But Thorin saw the truth in her words, sure enough, by looking her directly in the eye.

"Very well." He said and the tension in his face slackened. He took a few steps backwards which successfully made him less imposing. Only slightly, but that was enough. It was probably all he could manage.

He reached into his coat and removed a coin purse which she assumed was not the entirety of the funds meant for the expedition, but it was what he was keeping on him at this time. There were probably a select few others who carried a portion as well. He placed it purposefully in front of Faylinn, the tiny hide sack making an audible jingle at the contact.

"Fili and Faylinn will head to the market in Bree and procure as many ponies as they can. When the rest wake, we'll head into Hobbiton to do the same. When we're finished, we'll follow the East Road and find them there." He said to the wizard and she had a feeling she should be rather flattered to have been included in the plan at all.

"A sound plan, Thorin." Gandalf credited, managing somehow to sound both impressed and amused at the declaration. Almost like he had been expecting this exact outcome all along. Which he probably had. The annoying, all-knowing, fate-guided creature that her master was.

The Dwarf prince was probably thinking along similar lines, because he glared in the wizard's direction with more purpose than his typical glare.

"We'll leave at once then if you are quite ready, Master Dwarf." She addressed the young blond in the room and knowing that he'd been ready for some time, she moved immediately to stand. She patted her skirt down as her constant fidgeting in her seat had caused it to ride up and reveal her stocking covered legs all the way up to her knees. She'd have blushed at the indecency had such worries not been trampled by her relief at being able to leave the stifling room.

"May your journey be swift and uneventful, Faylinn." Gandalf told her with clear amusement and her lip quirked at the familiar send off. She bowed swiftly at the waist, turned on her heel and made her way the Hobbit-hole's entrance not stopping to see if the young dwarf was following her, although by the light bootsteps that sounded close behind she assumed he was. They veered off behind her and she assumed he had ducked into the parlour to grab his things.

A Hobbit-hole, she had decided, was a curious thing. The tunnels all connected somehow; in much the same way all the threads in a spider web were connected. This occurred to her once again as from her place in the entrance, she realized that a look to her right revealed another hallway and at its end, there was a clear view into the parlour. The blond had noticed the same thing because they locked eyes for a moment. He went back to what he was doing after a long moment.

He had been looking down at his younger brother, who was still sleeping soundly and contentedly. She imagined he'd been pondering waking him to inform him of this new development. He glanced out the window, likely noting the time, before shaking his head to himself and turning to come towards the entrance. He had a pack in his one hand made of simple tanned hide and leather and in the other he managed to carry two swords. Once they'd reached Bilbo Baggins' house, Faylinn had stowed her sword away in her saddlebags and was still out there, guarded by Amfortas like the rest of her things.

She quickly grabbed her cloak from a nearby stand, drawing the long piece of grey fabric over her shoulders and fastening it with care. She'd lost many a brooch in her travels and wasn't keen to break or misplace another. She tugged on it a little to make sure the needle wouldn't come loose. She then went for her gloves and slid them on, smoothing out the backs of the hands which she found often bunched due to the rabbit fur. There had been frost on the window when she'd woken, so she imagined it would remain rather cool yet.

Not to mention that she had a rather impractical need to try and keep her hands from getting _too_ calloused. They were already calloused from the reigns of Amfortas' bridle, her life as a beggar, the occasional use of her sword and, to her surprise, her writing. In particular, she had a small calloused bump on the inside of her right index finger that had been a result of long hours spent holding a quill in a firm grip.

Even so, she'd be damned if she ended up with warriors hands. She was still a lady, even though she was the only one in the world who likely thought that. Beyond Gandalf, it was actually more like that she was rarely thought of at all.

Part of being a vassal, being a servant, meant that she was invisible; just a shadow really. Even a poorly tinker's wife held higher status than her; at least a tinker's wife was still a freewoman. When she'd pledged her life to the wizard she had stripped herself of freewoman status and had her master been anyone else, she was sure he would have taken full advantage of that fact. Vassals did not have the right to have coin or own possessions, such things belonged to their masters. The meagre amount of coin she made by selling her books or the valuables she had on her person in actuality rightfully belonged to Master Gandalf, but he had never treated her as the servant she claimed to be.

He had always treated her as an equal.

True she performed errands for him and carried messages for him, but that was only ever by request. She knew she was free to reject at any time. He always spoke to her, not down at her. He always asked, never demanded. He did little things, like wish her well when she was leaving and spend hours telling her riddles or laughing at her stories. It was strange that she had lowered herself in class from freewoman to servant only to be treated better than when she was merchant nobility. Even there, as a freewoman who lived in wealth, she had been looked down on. The wizard always succeeded in making the world seem topsy-turvy.

When she looked up from her hands she was met with the sight of Fili, finishing up with fastening his Dwarven flat-blades, which she noted were skilfully crafted, to his woven belt. Her master had also come out to the entrance to see them off. He was standing in an awkward bent position with his head to the side, likely trying to avoid the low hanging chandeliers which were inconveniently hung all throughout the home. She only had to bend slightly to avoid them. She knew she was short and rather small, she had a feeling due to her lack of nutrition as a young child, but it concerned her that she had little trouble manoeuvring in the Hobbit-hole. Thorin was also there, leaning up against a wall in the hallway Fili had previously emerged from, his arms crossed over his chest and carrying his typical grim expression.

"Will you be taking Amfortas?" The aged looking man questioned curiously.

"I see no reason why not." She replied almost immediately. Riding the dappled beast stallion was second nature to her and she couldn't think of any reason to walk when they could ride.

"Me neither. But will the beast cooperate with me? He seems like the stubborn sort." Fili said absently, peering out the circular window next to the door where she was sure the horse was visible from where he had been tied down by the gate.

"Excuse me?" She asked quickly, aware she likely looked rather taken aback at the young dwarf. When she asked the question his head snapped back immediately with an expression that said he realized he'd said something wrong but wasn't entirely sure what. From what she remembered from the following night they'd been raised mainly by their mother and so it came as no surprise to her that he had a sense for knowing when he'd wronged within the parameters of the female psyche.

"I'm not about to be a passenger on the back of my _own_ horse." She snapped in return, to hopefully clarify some of his confusion. It only made matters worse. The blond went red-faced like she'd made some sort of humiliating suggestion and looked at her in what she was sure was closely related to shock.

"Well, I'm not going to be riding on the back like a _lady_." He said and she realized in that moment that he _was_ rather humiliated at the suggestion. She wanted him to ride behind her on a horse, a position typically reserved for women and children – neither of which was a flattering thing to compare a male of any race too. Of course she hadn't meant it that way and really hadn't thought of it like that either. She was just possessive of her horse, she spent more time on Amfortas than her own two feet and for some reason the thought of anyone else having command of him bothered her. She might even say it made her feel jealous, as infantile as she knew that was.

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and realized that Thorin wanted to intervene, moving to take a step forward with a scowl on his face, but he had been stilled by the wizard placing a polite hand on his shoulder. The expression on his wrinkled face to Faylinn had clear meaning. Despite seeming to have earned confusion from Thorin. She would not be cowed and she was about to show this young Dwarf exactly who was going to be in charge on this little adventure. She was only vassal to one bearded man and that was the wizard.

Just because she'd sworn an oath to assist Durin's line didn't mean she was suddenly their servant. More like an associate, especially in matters that didn't directly pertain to the outcome of their quest. She was aware that the outcome of this little tussle would likely upset the Dwarf prince but at this point she decided that if she did it tactfully, he wouldn't be able to come up with much to say on the matter.

Had her master been a betting man, she was sure his money would be on her and that the prince had every confidence in his nephew's ability to ride out of this the victor, with her as an angry passenger. She was not about to let that happen.

"Listen here, you. We'll make better time if we ride and I am the best rider here. Not to mention it's _my horse_." She said, aware her voice was hardened and clearer than usual. It was her angry voice. Usually when she spoke her voice was warm and smooth. That was usually to make her sound all the more charming and actually wasn't her natural tone at all, but one she'd learned to use on command. Gandalf called them 'Honeyed Words' for a reason. Although most were unaware of it she had an angry tone too, which Gandalf had told her was the voice of a scolding mother, and she pulled it out when she felt need of it. She had a feeling the young dwarf would be inherently receptive to it.

"I won't be riding as a passenger." Fili said although she noted he was a little less adamant than before.

"Too bad. That's your only choice if you want to ride." _Young man._ She couldn't help but add secretly in her head, admittedly causing her some quiet amusement. She hoped it didn't shine through her eyes. Certainly the Dwarf was much older than her, from what she knew of Dwarves he must've been at least sixty, but she also knew that he hadn't been an 'adult' amongst his culture for very long.

He was still used to being treated like a child even if when he was openly treated as such, especially by a stranger, it now made him indignant. She wondered if riding behind her _like a child_ was actually what bothered him more than riding behind her like _like a lady_ did. She'd felt from the beginning that his insistence in her riding behind him hadn't been from chivalry, like most would assume.

Had it been a mere act of chivalry, this argument would have been over by now. Chivalry was not worth this amount of dispute; he'd have given up by now. After all, 'you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink' is actually the same as 'you can extend your hand in chivalry but you can't make the lady take it'. His mindset from the beginning had probably been along the lines of his Uncle had _finally_ given him an adult task and she was his tag-along, so she was expected to play the part.

But that wasn't how this was about to go. Not at all. She wasn't about to be stepped on and she was going to show him that.

"Then I will walk and you can ride." He finally said, not entirely ready to give up the fight – still hoping to best her somehow.

"If you walk then I will too. There's no benefit to one of us riding and the other walking. We'll only be able to go as fast as the person who is walking so if we want to stay together, both of us may as well walk." She said simply, crossing her arms over her chest.

He sighed heavily.

She tapped her foot.

When Amfortas finally bolted eagerly around the winding green hills of the Shire, following the road to Bree, it was with a grinning woman at the reigns and a sulking, young Dwarf whose arms were grudgingly wrapped around her waist.

 _ **Finally. Next chapter is also half way done and I have done some extensive outlining. Hoping to have the next chapter up soon, my lifestyle now is slightly more accommodating for spending hours on end writing. (I have a pretty mindless job where the work comes to me, so I've been using some of my 'free time' at work to write when I can :/) Can't make any promises, especially since I've been working anywhere from 44-50/week (they're too cheap to hire anymore people so I've been in overtime for the last month) but I am working on this story. I haven't forgotten it, I assure you.**_

 _ **~ OrthodoxLily**_


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